The Little Wolf
by EilidhRose
Summary: What if you owned an animal species that mimicked your soul, a "spirit animal" in reality? People of such abilities are called "Outsiders". Lyra is an "Outsider". Lyra is unique, and odd, and special and gifted...And hunted. An Outsider is so hated, so frowned upon...how will she survive in the Game of Thrones. *Same story written by same author on different sites*
1. Lyra

Winterfell

Two eyes the colour of crystals peered over a fallen tree, staring intently at a snow-white beetle hunting a smaller, weaker bug.

The watched beetle, with matched concentration, slyly moved closer to his prey. As he opened his mouth, the beetle lunged for his meal, departing the ground as one creature, landing again, prey in mouth, as a small bird.

"Lev!" the little girl with crystal eyes enthused, "well done, my friend!"

The baby bird swaggered over to the girl proudly, pacing on the log in front of her crystal eyes as if to do a victory dance. The little lady shifted slightly to remove her drab grey cloak, revealing an equally drab and utterly filthy outfit underneath. Her navy blue dress, which covered her knobbly little knees, had dirt stains smattered all over it, her fur vest had cobwebs, her should-be-straight brown hair held a rat's maze, her black stockings ripped at the shin.

Lyra was utterly, in all senses of the word, imperfect.

Yet, this would never discount her worth, and Lyra knew, humbly, that she was special. Lev, her little beetle-turned-bird was more than a specimen, he was far more than a companion to the unique little lady, Lev was Lyra's soul. He was her spirit, her emotion, her personality worn on her sleeve, all reflecting in a little creature that changed species like her big sister changed her mind about whether little Lyra was worth her time or not.  
But Lyra didn't care about Sansa, her grumpy big sister that she couldn't help but adore, she left all that behind her every day when she was with Lev.

She crouched down again, once more resuming her position of intently staring at the bird. Quickly Lev stretched his wings and flew up, squawking to encourage his little master to keep up. Lyra cackled, before hoisting herself over the log, sprinting through the forest, splashing through water, sliding, tummy down, through mud. Mother would not be pleased, Father would once more walk into her room and tenderly tell his rambunctious little daughter to act like a lady, not a clown, Jon would smirk, and Arya would be jealous that she weren't there with her.

As Lyra rose out of the mud, she heard voices and horses approaching, reminding her of the Night's Watch deserter that required her father's audience. Lyra had been given no knowledge of the execution, but being the intuitive thing she was, had simply figured. She whistled for Lev, who soared onto her shoulder, this time as a Snow Owl, and headed for the noise, bracing herself for a "how to be lady-like" lecture.

As Lyra frequently did, she was accurate in assuming the reactions of her clumsy, energetic ways. The second her muddied little figure blundered onto the path, her Father gently shook his head in a delicate mix of disapproval, for the lady his daughter wasn't, but admiration, for the woman his daughter would inevitably become. She was simple. She was Lyra.

"I'm sorry, father", the girl spoke, guiltily looking at her muddied boots.

"Where is Maester Leland?" Her father questioned, reminding Lyra of her doddery old teacher. Maester Leland had been invited to look after Lev to his needs during Lyra's infancy, and then teach Lyra how to control him, and her unique powers, as she aged.

Lyra knew little of how Lev came about, and no one, not even her father or mother, would tell her. All the girl knew was that when she was born, the wetnurse and Maester Luwin agreed she was special. The girl was born tiny, so tiny they debated her survival. Yet, she fought hard, and though she was still tiny now, aged four, she was still a little fighter. Additionally, her eyes were crystal blue, so bright and sparkly, they were described in relation to a White Walkers. A couple of months after her birth, Lyra was still tiny, her eyes still effervescent, and her parents increasingly worried. Within an hour, Ned was packed up, babe in arms, where he galloped out of the gates. Her returned two months later, Lyra, still tiny, bundled in his arms, a baby owl perched on his shoulder. And that is all Lyra knew. She didn't know where her father took her, where Lev appeared, and who Ned met with.

Lyra frequently questioned it, to which her parents, or Leland, would simply answer, "Lyra, you are a special girl, who has a special future planned." The conversations would always end there, any more questioning from Lyra being shunned furthermore.

Lyra reconsidered her father's question of Maester Leland's whereabouts and answered, "Home, father. Our lesson ended."

Her father merely shook his head again, this time eyeing her grubby dress. Then, he gently smiled before saying, "Ride with your brothers", nodding over at her three brothers mounted atop their horses. Before she could walk toward a horse, Ned chuckled with a cheeky grin.

"What?" Lyra asked.

"You have to tell mother what happened to your dress!" he grinned.

And, with that, he kicked his horse into a trot. Leaving Lyra to silently panic over what she would tell her mother. Jon trotted up, still smirking, and lifted his little sister into his lap.

Together, the company continued to ride. Lev, a baby owl, paced his flaps to fly aside Lyra.


	2. Little Knight

Winterfell

"Arise, Ser Lyra, Knight of Winterfell", Lyra giggled as her imagination went into overdrive. She was all on her own, which was typical for her, but she wasn't lonely, she was free. Free to dash after Lev as he switched species interchangeably, free to lie in the grass and roll down hills and swing from trees. Free to allow her imagination to carry her on all sorts of courageous adventures. The most frequent adventure was becoming "Ser Lyra", a brave knight of Winterfell.

Lyra had an odd obsession with Knights, and her ambition was to become one. She didn't care that "Ser" was typical for men, some day, she would charge into battle atop a handsome stallion, and she would fight alongside her brothers. A knight was an honorary title, and if she had honour, and courage, and skill, what would prevent her from achieving, she thought. Power was not on her mind, however, and Lyra would gladly bend her knee to one who was worthy, but honour, much like her father, was the badge she would wear with pride. However, no matter how honourable she was, no matter how skilled she was at throwing knives or swinging a sword, sneakily stolen from the kitchen or her brother's belt, and no matter how much she aspired to be one, a lady could never be a knight. She was to trot side saddle, she was to curtsy to her superiors, and she was to 'glide', as her mother lectured, not run.

Unfortunately for Lyra, being feminine was not a skill of hers. For lack of a better words, as Lyra frequently thought, she absolutely sucked at being a lady.

While Sansa was born into it, and Arya refused to conform to it, Lyra simply failed at it. She'd stab herself with sewing needles, her knobbly little knees raced to and fro through the halls of Winterfell, her alert ears always catching her mother's voice, lecturing, "Hush, little lady. A lady doesn't run, a lady glides." Her shins were covered with scabs, not stockings, her dress muddied, and she found herself on the ground most times she tried to curtsy. However, what her mother didn't know was that behind closed doors, there was her youngest daughter-her clumsiest daughter-practising her curtsying, for no reason other than to make her parents proud.

Yet, Lyra's clumsiness would never ignore Lyra's spirit. She had more loyalty, more honour, than her father could fathom for a four year old. She had a pure heart, a sense of worth, and she wore her title as a Stark like a decorated badge. She may have had the coordination of a baby deer on a frozen lake, but she had the honour of a Stark. She was her father's daughter, through and through.

It was because of her desire to be a knight, however, that she found herself, once again, sneaking away from the magnificent castle of Winterfell into the woods. An old belt of her father's was tied around her skinny waste and several kitchen knives and a wooden sword were anchored tightly in. She was ready for yet another adventure, and, as per usual, so was Lev and her newly adopted direwolf puppy, Chief.

Lyra stood in the forest a short while later, facing a tree-but in her overactive, imaginative mind, the tree was no less than an enemy, ready for Ser Lyra to attack it. She drew a knife, aimed it at the target and threw. The knife flew through the air quickly, and struck the target accurately. She smiled to herself, before looking over for Lev and Chief's noises of approval. Once more, the little knight-to-be drew another knife. She took a deep sigh in, aimed it at the tree, and steadied herself for the throw, inhaling the calmness of her surroundings, focusing on nothing but her target and her weapon.

"And how long do you expect your enemy to stand around for?" a low voice intruded her concentration. She flinched in fright, before turning around nervously. Her older brother, Jon, was standing there. He very rarely smiled and he often had his head hung, but Lyra saw through him. He was an outcast like her, he was unique in his own way like her, and he often found himself on his own, like her.

"You scared me" Lyra said softly, before turning around, once again raising her knife to aim carefully. It was a slow process for her, but her accuracy was commendable.

"You need to work on two things, little one", Jon spoke, again breaking Lyra's concentration.

"What?"

"First, speed. I wasn't kidding, nor was I exaggerating- your enemy will not stand there and wait as you aim your weapon."

Lyra couldn't help but chuckle at the thought. Her bright smile, toothless and adorable, worked its magic and forced a smile out of her broody big brother. She nodded and silently promised to work on both speed and aim, to become better.

"Second", Jon added, "Don't flinch. I approached you, not too softly, from behind, and you were startled. A knight needs to have courage and a knight needs to have a steady hand. You can not flinch."

This caused the little girl to hang her head, chin to chest. She often thought about everything positive that made her a knight, yet she often failed to address what wouldn't make her one. Jon squatted beside her petite figure, placed his hand on her shoulder, and looked into her eyes.

"Stand up. Stand tall. Stand proud." Lyra did so, puffing her little chest out proudly. Jon smiled tenderly at her, once more. He then drew two longswords from his belt, causing Lyra to flinch once more.

"Close your eyes" he said authoritatively, "When I bang my swords together, when you hear that noise, I want you to open your eyes and throw your knife. Okay, little one?"

Lyra nodded, chest still puffed out, knife in hand. Slowly, she closed her eyes and waited for the noise. The wait was agonising, the anticipation close to unbearable waiting to hear the noise of the swords clashing together.

Finally, though, the noise was heard. Lyra opened her eyes, aimed and threw the knife. It hit the tree, a while away from her target, but she still hit the tree. Lyra smiled and spun around to confront Jon's frown.

"I did it, I didn't flinch and I hit the tree!"

"But your speed was poor. What did I tell you about the need for haste? Remember, you need to throw fast. Accuracy will come later."

Once more, Lyra reset-eyes closed, knife in hand, anticipating the noise to alert her to open her eyes and throw.

This time, when she heard the bang of the swords colliding, she opened her eyes and threw immediately. Her speed was admirable, her accuracy poor. The knife whizzed right passed the tree, deep into the forest. Chief and Lev immediately took of in search of it, Lev transforming from a small white bug, to a magnificent owl, racing her black and white patched direwolf to retrieve the weapon.

Jon pushed his swords back into his belt, before saying, "Third lesson for today. Practise. A knight never gives up on his-or her-skill."

Lyra nodded, before setting off to collect her knives. She turned around to hear Jon say, "Most knights fight with swords, not throw knives. One day, I expect to see you do both."

Lyra beamed her effervescent grin, and imagined herself slaying her enemy.

One day, she thought, one day I will make it. Then she turned to her big brother, one of her best friends, and said, "One day we will fight side by side."

With this, she raced to Jon, the only man who ever came close to understanding her, and jumped into his arms in a tight bear hug.

"One day", he said with a smile, before kissing her on the head and heading back for Winterfell.


	3. An Outsider

Winterfell

"The King is coming!"

The news spread like wildfire through Winterfell. The great hall was prepped for the king, King Robert Baratheon, his Queen, children and company. More food than Lyra had ever seen was brought in, and Lyra was ushered out of each and every room as maids cleaned hastily.

Lyra had never met the King, but she had heard tails of him. He was supposed to wed Lyanna, her father's sister, but her tragic death had changed everything. The King and her father had fought side by side over a decade prior, and had not seen each other for nine years. This meant Lyra, and her 6 -year-old brother Rickon had never been seen by him.

Nonetheless, everyone was excited for the nobles' arrival through their gates in just a number of weeks. Everyone was a relative term, however, as Maester Leland, Lyra's ageing teacher, spent most of his time in her lessons teaching Lyra how important it was to keep her mouth shut about Lev, and her "abilities".

Lyra was an Outsider, and Lev was a creature called a Helai.

Both were feared, and for the most part exiled or alienated. That is why Lyra had to always stay silent, and keep Lev hidden, or controlled, when visitors came.

A Helai was a projection of someone's soul in animal form. They were the emotion, the personality and every sprinkle of what made the person uniquely them. A Helai's master was called an "Outsider", a term born from the alienation of their kind centuries prior. During childhood innocence, a Helai is interchangeable between species, hence Lev shifting effortlessly between bug to bird to tiger cub in the matter of seconds. However, once the Outsider ages, matures, or loses their innocence, the Helai would also grow. Maester Leland's job was to teach Lyra how to control and command her Helai, before this happened. Once the Outsider loses their innocence, if they had not gained control over their Helai, the creature would settle as a sole animal, the animal projection of their soul, and not be able to change species again. If, on the other hand, they do gain control, the Outsider can command the Helai to turn into whatever animal they desire.

"The best Outsiders are able to control their Helai's change with their minds", Leland often recounted. Lyra would always enthuse, "One day, will I be able to turn Lev into a dragon?" to which Leland would reply glumly, "That is for you to find out."

"Outsider's were once common folk-they were nobles, they were knights, they were were from all walks of life, and had varying socio-economical was when Dragons flew in the sky, and the Targaryen's were on the throne", the old man continued.

All Lyra knew was that that the Targaryen's used to be the royal family of Westeros, but they lost it. At the time, however, Outsider's fought side by side with them, the most powerful of them turning their Helai's into dragons. Once the throne was lost to them, Outsider's were banished beyond the wall to the "Land of Souls", any stepping foot over would be sparked that Outsider's had become the wild folk beyond the wall, others believed Outsiders were as evil and inhuman as White Walkers.

From then on, the rumours sparked, and stories became what many believed a reality. Outsider's were evil and could not be trusted. A selected few, many Northerners, disbelieved these stories and agreed on the consensus that the treatment of Outsider's was unfair and unjust-but you can't stand up to a King. Thus, Lyra had been born an Outsider, and Ned was forced to keep her abilities hidden to save her life.

The rumours were so wrong, and one day Lyra knew she would have to change it.


	4. A Time to Hide

Winterfell

It was Summer, and it had been for a long time. The days were longer, the nights shorter, but with a crispness in the air suggesting that winter would be coming soon.

Lyra liked the Summer, but was strangely looking forward to the Winter. For her, Winter seemed quieter, with less hustle and more solitude. Lyra preferred to be on her own, she liked being with just her thoughts and her pets, no curtsying, or haste, or "pick up the pace, hurry it along", no judgement and no hiding. On her own, she would giggle as she hung from trees and allow her dress to fall over her face, she would take off her shoes and stockings and place her little feet in the stream. She would teach her direwolf tricks, and try and catch Lev as he changed species as quick as a blink.

Occasionally Jon would join, which didn't bother Lyra. Jon, like her, was a reserved sort who frequently found himself on his own. And, sometimes, if the chaos of the castle, or the pressures of being a bastard, or an Outsider got to them, they'd both take off for a few hours.

The last few weeks for Lyra, however, had been nothing but a time to hide. It was not out of her desire to be on her own, or shying away from the King and his family and company arriving at Winterfell, it was because she was an Outsider, literally and figuratively. There were many people who were worried about her kind, many who were indifferent to them, but some simply detested them-and, unfortunately for sweet Lyra, the King was one of them, as was his family.

Thus, Lyra was unable to spend too long in their presence, and if a feast arose, Lev was kept in the dungeons where he couldn't escape, under lock and key and a watchful eye. It was simply too risky having Lev fly around, as he was still too young to understand he must only change when selected eyes were on him. Yet, a Helai was a spiritual animal, and a piece of Lyra's soul, and separation was tough on her.

Lyra always thought if they found out about her being an Outsider, and that what they thought was just a pet owl was actually a species-changing Helai, they would only be mad. The worst case scenario in Lyra's innocent, childish mind was that Lev would be taken away. Nevertheless, despite what she innocently believed, she couldn't help but notice that her parents were always quite anxious whenever Lyra was around anyone in the Lannister or Baratheon family.

They knew more than their youngest daughter, they feared more than Lyra did. Little did sweet Lyra know that if any of them found out they would not just take Lev away from _her_ , they would take Lyra away from her parents.

And they would kill her.


	5. Forgotten

Winterfell

Everything had changed since the King had arrived. Everything.

To Lyra, the King seemed moronic and slow, but Cersei, his Queen, wasn't. She was so bitter and fiendish, yet clever in a cunning way. Lyra's mother, Lady Catelyn, had become so worried over having her daughter and Lev around Cersei, she was ordered to spend most of her time in her chamber. It was out of love, and Lyra understood her parents merely wanted to protect her, but it was difficult for Lyra. She enjoyed being on her own, but not in the one place. She enjoyed having adventures on her own outside, where there were no limits to her imagination and her brave conquests seemed so real, even if they were a figment of her mind. However, facing the same drab, grey walls was not the way Lyra enjoyed solitude. She scoffed to her old, patched-up bear how she was an Outsider both in a figurative and literal sense. An Outsider was a 'kind' of person, which Lyra was, yet she was equally alienated she felt she understood where the term arose from.

Every couple of hours, Catelyn would slip into Lyra's room and embrace her young daughter sympathetically, struggling to let go, making Lyra aware of how difficult it was for her mother. Catelyn "never had much of an opinion on Outsiders" before Lyra was born, but now she would go to any lengths to make sure their infamous mistreatment would never reach her baby. After a number of weeks, Lyra quite looked forward to her mother's visits, and would wait standing at the door for her to walk in.

That was until the accident.

Not even a week earlier, her older brother, Bran, had been found unconscious at the foot of a tower. He had seemingly fallen, but no one seemed to believe that story. All knew, even Lyra in her four year old wisdom, that Bran had climbed in every condition, even when the stones were slippery and footing was seemingly impossible, and had never fallen. Now, her mother wasted away by Bran's comatose side, and Cersei's smile seemed to get more cunning.

The days following Bran's fall, Lyra went forgotten. The chaos of the King's arrival was enough for her to go unnoticed, but the tragedy of the fall made it impossible for anyone to remember that the little lady had not been fed, bathed, tucked in, or even had her chamber pot cleaned. So, Lyra made her way outside to scavenge some food.

And, in a momentary lapse of caution, she had allowed Lev to change form. As soon as it occurred, panic took over and Lev squawked a warning, prompting Lyra to turn around, startled.

Lannister eyes had seen.

"You're an Outsider!" the man proclaimed, but not with fear, rather admiration. The figure emerged further from the shadows, revealing a stout man, who stood at Lyra's height-an imp, as many called him.

Lyra stood frozen in shock, frantically thinking of what to say.

"A Helai is you if you were an animal, I understand?" the small man asked. Lyra didn't answer, she just gently backed away.

"Are you scared of me?" the man asked again, looking genuinely confused at the girls silence and fright. Then, he remembered-the history of Outsiders, Helai's and what his family did to them. While the order was to banish them, the Lannister's decided to murder them instead. Lyra knew this, and unfortunately for the small Lannister man, so did he.

"Well then, I must apologise. Apologise for my families treatment of your kind. I could not choose what family I was born to, and my surname is no indication of my opinions. If I had it my way, Outsider's would flourish" he added, looking rather sad.

Lyra's feelings conflicted, from feeling she must be cautious, to strangely wanted to trust this man. She uttered softly, almost at a whisper, "This is Lev."

The man smiled and extended a hand to pet Lev, but the owl flinched away. He gained his composure and said with a smile, "I'm Tyrion".

"Lyra" she replied, gently smiling.

They spoke for a while, Tyrion apologising for Bran's fall, Lyra explaining more about Helai's and the "destiny" everyone said was waiting for her, but she knew nothing about. Just before they bid each other farewells, Tyrion jokingly measured his height against Lyra's, and pretended to cheer when he realised he was a small amount taller.

Lyra walked off, giggling, and she thought to herself that maybe not everyone is bad, maybe not all are watchful of her kind. Perhaps one day, maybe when she is a knight, Outsider's will come back and demand the respect they deserve.

That night, as she struggled to sleep thinking about Bran, and her isolation, she couldn't help but feel happy. She had made a friend. And, for Lyra, that was a cause to celebrate. Someone actually wanted to spend time with her, and they weren't an animal, and they weren't imaginary.

They were real.


	6. A Real Adventure

Winterfell

Ser Lyra was on another adventure.

It seemed no one seemed to care if she was here nor there, so she embarked on more adventures, gallivanting around the forest behind the castle. There were times when Lyra thought that she could disappear and no one would notice. She even considered asking Jon if he would like to take off with her. She tried to be brave and understanding, but the sudden shift of normalcy was difficult on all, let alone a mere four year old. Lev was no fun lately either. Since he was a creature who mimicked her innermost being, he resembled a monotonous, ashen moth most days.

Her brother remained comatose, and her mother remained absent, withering away at his side.

Winterfell had always been grey; the walls, floors, the proud house sigil bearing a magnificent wolf , even the clothes the people wore. Yet, the laughter of the people offered a joyous light in comparison to the lustreless surroundings, and Lyra couldn't help but love it. Lately, however, every room was uninviting and every pleasant place was now cheerless.

Once Lyra returned to Winterfell, after a few hours of absence, she explored the castle, in case she'd overlooked a hidden passage. She found herself walking the length of an elongated corridor, intimidating in size, but oddly thrilling. Lyra was often thankful for her petite stature as it made the world seem so vast, and ensured her adventures never dulled. Along the corridor, she began following the faint sound of whispering, coming from behind a closed door. Soon, the whispering became indistinguishable murmurs, before subtly transforming into words, as she tiptoed closer. She recognised the gentlest voice as her father's, and determined that he must have been speaking to the King.

She caught the word "betrothed", and though she wasn't exactly sure of its meaning, she understood what it meant in context-particularly when King Robert was using it. Lyra's oldest sister, Sansa, was to be "betrothed" to the King's oldest son, Prince Joffrey. Sansa, like any thirteen year old, was beyond excited at marrying a Prince and one day becoming a Queen. She frequently gushed about him when he wasn't there, and she blushed whenever he was there, which made Lyra and Arya giggle. If Lyra had to describe the young Prince in one word, it would be "unpleasant". The sort of person who introduced cobwebs to each room, and made the room feel instantly colder. He had lemon-coloured hair, and a constant sneer like he was plotting something. Lyra thought he looked peculiar, Sansa thought he was dreamy.

As the conversation between her father and the King continued, it only got more confusing. Lyra noticed the strain in her father's voice, like he was struggling to speak. That was always the worst thing about talking to the King, though they tell you to speak your mind, it was punishable if you did. Whatever the two were talking about, it was putting Eddard in an uncomfortable place. The next words Lyra heard were "Oldest and youngest" and "Sansa and Lyra". The sound of her name forced her to stick her ear harder against the door, curious to hear why she was now a part of the conversation.

"My youngest and your youngest could very well be a match, too, Ned" the King announced.

Hesitantly, Eddard said, "Lyra...Your Grace, Lyra is yet to be five. She is too young."

"Your oldest daughter will marry my oldest son, and when they come of age, Lyra will marry Tommen, my youngest. Our families will unite" the King's voice boomed. His voice trailed off, "The two of them will accompany you to the Capital..."

"The Capital?" Lyra whispered to herself, sadly.

The King and his family lived in the Capital, a glorious place named Kings Landing, about a months journey from her home in Winterfell. Yet, Kings Landing was in the South, and Southerners had negative views on Outsiders. The last Outsider Lyra had heard of being in the South had been executed for no reason other than being "of his kind". Lyra was petrified at the thought, and held back her tears. The dangerous nature of Lyra going to Kings Landing would have been playing on her Father's mind, Lyra thought, hence his hesitation, but you can't say no to a King and any reluctance would have been suspicious.

Lyra sprinted back to the safety of her chamber, curled under her bed and willed herself not to cry. She didn't want to leave Winterfell, she didn't want to leave the drab grey walls and forest out the back. She didn't want to leave Jon. She didn't want to leave her other brothers, Bran, Robb and Rickon. She didn't want to leave her mother. She didn't want to leave the calm of the North and go to the hustle of the Capital. She tried to tell herself that this was an adventure. The biggest adventure she'd ever had. She would get to be a Knight in a new place.

These thoughts did little to comfort herself, but she still willed herself not to cry. If there was one thing a Knight didn't do, it was cry. And Lyra was a knight, even if she was scared.


	7. Wolf

Winterfell

Departure from Winterfell was pending, and Lyra grew more anxious and reluctant to leave with each passing day. Lyra had prayed to the old Gods and the new that perhaps things would change and she wouldn't have to travel South, yet they didn't answer. Since they were yet to answer her prayers for her brother to awake from his coma, she figured her second request would go unheard for now.

With hair flowing behind her, Lyra, once more, sprinted from Winterfell to the Godswood. It would be the last time for her to practice throwing knives, and it would be the last time for her to freely play with Lev, without fear that evil eyes were watching her. King's Landing was a dangerous place for an Outsider, even if they were a noble one.

Lyra threw her collection of knives at the tree, however, most of them were feeble and rusty and weren't efficient. Still, she persisted, and as Jon had taught she continued to practice her skill. She closed her eyes and breathed in deeply, preparing to launch the blade into the air as soon as she exhaled. Succeeding more than she expected, the blade sailed through the air quickly and struck the tree close to her target.

"You're getting better" a low voice spoke behind her. She recognised the voice and spun around excitedly, beaming up at Jon.

"I've been practising, like you said", Lyra smiled, returning the compliment.

Jon knelt down in front of her to get to her height, and placed one hand tenderly on her shoulder.

"Close your eyes" he instructed.

Lyra obeyed, and closed her eyes, anticipating what Jon would do. He placed an object, which was surprisingly weighty, in her small hands, and told her to open. There, resting in the palms of her hands, was the single greatest gift Lyra had ever received.

It was a small blade, but with a specific weight designed for an effective throw. It wasn't just a regular knife, it was a throwing knife. Its steel was silver, and when it glistened Lyra thought it looked like a glimpse of the moon. The handle was a hard, woven design, intermingling royal gold with Stark grey, and the tip handle had the ornament of a proud Direwolf head. Lyra was speechless, all she could do was stare at her gift.

Jon interrupted the silence, "Lyra, this is your first weapon, your first blade. Be careful, and be wise." Lyra nodded, grinning from ear to ear. She gently put the knife back into its sheath, and then leaped up into Jon's arms, and wrapped her arms around his neck.

"Since this is your first blade, a mighty blade at that, it deserves a name."

Lyra though for a moment, before answering, "Wolf".

And before Jon could question it, Lyra concluded, "Because it was given to me by one."


	8. Courage, Lyra

Winterfell

The day had come.

It was time to leave Winterfell, it was time to leave her family, time to leave Jon, and time to leave the safety of the North.

Lyra had already said her goodbye's to her mother and Bran, telling his lifeless figure that one day they would see each other again, and he would be better. She hugged Rickon and Robb, even some of the bannermen, maids and maesters she'd never met before but felt obliged to do so. She had been avoiding the last goodbye for the whole morning, hoping innocently that if she never said it, he would never leave. Jon walked up to her, and smirked as Lyra tried to avoid eye contact.

"It's time for us to say goodbye, little one" he said, bending down toward her slightly.

She'd been so brave through all the goodbye's, but now the agony of leaving home and the desperation to stay was building up a resistance. All her sadness broke its barrier in her eyes, and spilled down her cheeks.

She sobbed, "I don't want to say goodbye".

"Well then, don't say goodbye. One day, pray soon, we will see each other again. You will have trained hard with Wolf, and learned how to control Lev."

Lyra didn't respond, she just sobbed as Jon scooped her up into a final tight hug.

"I'm going to miss you, Lyra."

"I'll miss you too" she responded, tearfully.

"When you miss me, hold Wolf close and think of me. Think of how one day we will be together again. Different roads sometimes lead to the same castle."

He started walking toward a horse-drawn wagon, Lyra still in his arms. He placed her down, held her hand and said simply, "Courage, Lyra."

Shortly after, the company were all riding out of the gates toward the Kingsroad, following the Lannister's lead. Jon, the small man and her Uncle Benjen would accompany them along the Kingsroad before splitting off in opposite directions. Jon was heading to the Wall to join the Night's Watch. Lyra had lost count of the amount of times she'd asked Jon if she would be able to join the Night's Watch. It was uttered that when you become a sworn brother of the Night's Watch, all your previous sins were forgotten. What Lyra didn't know was not only did those on the Wall hate the Outsider's like the Free Folk, the Watchers on the Wall would butcher any that passed. Maester Leland had told Lyra that most surviving Outsider's lived beyond the Wall in the Land of Always Winter, in a place known as the Land of Souls. Only a lucky few, Lyra included, were still alive on her side of the Wall.

As the company rode the Kingsroad, Lyra looked on sadly as Jon, Benjen and Tyrion parted and went a separate way. Way off in the distance, opposite from her direction of travel, Lyra imagined what the Wall looked like, and she dreamed of one day reuniting with Jon there.

Her mind continued to wander to far beyond the Wall to the Land of Souls, a place she only visited in her dreams. One day, when she was grown up, she would journey to such a place and meet her own kind, perhaps even unite them to bring back their honour.

It was going to be a long journey, but if she was a knight, she would have to be brave. She took Wolf out of his Sheath, held him to her chest and whispered, "Courage, Lyra".


	9. Fearsome

Crossroads Inn, Along the Kingsroad

The journey from Winterfell to King's Landing was about a month, and all were getting rambunctious, but none more so than Lyra and Lev. Each time they stopped, Eddard would hurry Lyra along, to ensure she was out of the way of all who could see her, and allow Maester Leland to take her, Lev, and his own Helai, Sella, somewhere to be free for a while. Therefore, Lyra could not wait to actually arrive at King's Landing, where she would actually have a room to stay, and a place more permanent to keep Lev.

Nonetheless, there was yet another place to stay before arriving in the South. It was an Inn along the Kingsroad, commonly called the Crossroads Inn. Despite Sansa's complaint's, Lyra quite liked it there. There was a forest nearby, that reminded her of the one at Winterfell, albeit much smaller. Arya and Lyra had taken off with their friend, Mycah, with the intention of finding a quite place to play. Lyra, however, took Wolf with her, and practised her knife throwing, leaving Chief, her Direwolf, to have a much needed break from Lev's pesky, youth behaviours, such as turning into a bird and pecking at his tail.

Finally, as Lyra had wished for, there was a sense of freedom, and seclusion.

That was until the Prince came.

Arya and Mycah had been sword fighting with sticks, and Lyra was practising, yet again, her skill in knife-throwing. The Prince ponced up to the Butcher's boy and directly spoke to him. Mycah was a sweet boy, much taller than both Arya and Lyra, but was very soft and kind. He also knew he must respect the Prince, and agree with his every word, even if it was unfair and disagreeable. First, the Prince wrongly claimed that Mycah had been beating a lady, a noble, which Arya argued against. Then, Joffrey complained when the boy called him "my Lord" instead of "Your Grace", and when Mycah apologised profusely and bowed in respect, all the rotten Prince did was smirk and put on a show for Sansa, who had been walking with him earlier. Lyra, immediately dreading being anywhere with Lev, grabbed Lev and told him to leave. Lev very rarely listened to her instructions, only her mind. Lyra's fear was that if she found herself angry at Joffrey, Lev would mimic her and reveal himself as a wolf, effectively concluding any hope of surviving in the South as an Outsider. Thankfully, Lev seemed to obey.

The cruel Prince snarled, "You are nothing but a Butcher's boy, a peasant. Your kind are my servants, I don't have to show any respect you, toad."

"Wrong!" Lyra argued, trying not to show Joffrey that she was terrified. Her father had always taught her that though she was a noble, though she had power, didn't mean she could exploit those who didn't. If she were lucky enough to have money, her wealth would be used to help others who needed help. That, her father told her, was the only reason why a man should have power and money.

Joffrey turned to face Lyra, taking a step toward her, towering over her petite, trembling frame, cocking his head perilously. "What did you say? You are talking to a Prince."

Lyra considered keeping her mouth shut, she was so scared. Yet, a voice in her mind propelled her to stand up for the boy who couldn't. "I said you are wrong, _Your Grace_ " she said with a sarcastic bow, emphasising the words "Your Grace".

Before the Prince got a chance to reply, Lyra added, "Without the people, there would be no Kings Landing. YOU are as much their servant as they are yours."

Lyra held her breath, waiting for Joffrey to draw his sword and attack her, but he didn't. Instead, he turned toward Mycah, and walked in his direction, drawing his sword. As he reached Mycah, he turned to Lyra and Arya and said, "This is what I do to peasants", and with that he slashed a line on the boy's cheek, drawing blood and tears.

Arya picked up her stick, in a fit of rage, and hit the Prince over the back. The Prince swung his sword at her and screamed, "I'll gut you...", and continuing to swear obscenities at her sister. Arya swerved and ducked the blade, but eventually tripped over, causing her to be an open target to Joffrey's rage and sword blade. Sansa screamed for both to stop it, but he continued for she had dared to attack a Prince, a punishable crime. He raised the sword above his head, seconds away from swinging it down and killing Arya, before Lyra jumped up from behind and grabbed the blade with her bare heads. The pain was mind-numbing, and she felt blood immediately begin to trickle from her palms, down her wrists and slipping under the sleeves of her dress. She screamed and cried, but refused to let go, until Joffrey eventually loosened his grip on the handle. Then, with perfect timing, Arya's Direwolf, Nymeria, leapt out of the shadows and latched onto his wrist, causing his to scream in pain and drop the sword. Arya ran to it, and held it at the Prince, threatening to gut him in return. Excusing the pain she felt, Lyra pulled Wolf from her sheath and held it at Joffrey, too, standing defiantly beside her sister.

Despite having his own sword pointed at him by Arya, he still scoffed at Lyra's small blade, and referred to it as "petty", claiming she would never do anything with a blade so puny. Lyra was no longer timid, she took a step over the Prince, who was lying on the ground defencelessly, so she was now standing over him intimidatingly. She then said, "Though a knife of such a small size is not the most common weapon of defence, anyone with a clue would know that in the hands of, say, a little girl's revolt, it is fearsome." The Prince fell silent, with a look of dread on his face, and Lyra contemplated throwing her knife toward the ground near his body as a final warning. Interrupting her contemplation, Arya walked toward the river and threw the sword away, before calling for both her little sister and Direwolf, and escaping into the forest.

Nymeria was going to be in so much trouble. Though she had defended the girls, she had no way of defending herself from inevitable execution. So, to avoid such heartbreak, Arya told Nymeria to run before anyone found her. While Arya threw rocks to scare her beloved Direwolf away, Lyra began to succumb to the pain in her hands, sliding down the face of a tree and heaving her little chest so heart, she thought maybe her lungs would burst. She had never known such pain, and never seen so much blood. Arya spun around, after being successful in helping Nymeria escape, and grabbed Lyra's knife to cut off the bottom of her dress to make bandages for her hands to stop the bleeding. After she'd tied up her wounds, Arya sat beside her, and Lyra leaned her head against her sister's shoulder, starting to feel ill.

"They'll find us", Arya said, "They'll bring us in front of the King".

Facing the King was a worry for everyone, but being an Outsider made it even worse. Lyra just prayed the rotten Prince hadn't seen Lev.

After a while of huddling in the forest together, in each other's arms, Arya brought up the possibility of them escaping, offering to carry Lyra until she felt better. She, too, feared what would happen if the King found out about Lyra being an Outsider. Sadly, time was lacking.

It was then that the guards approached, returning them to the Inn, where they were dragged in front of the King.


	10. Chief

Crossroads Inn, Along the Kingsroad

Lyra could hear her father's voice long before he entered the room, worrying about where his two youngest daughter's were.

Lyra and Arya had been brought before the King, the Queen and Prince Joffrey, as well as a room packed full of guards and company. Lyra was trembling, a mixture of the pain in her hands and the fear of being discovered as an Outsider. Her father barged into the room, and parted the sea of people to get to his daughters. He brushed Arya's face and pulled Lyra in close, asking tenderly, "Are you alright, are you hurt?". Arya nodded toward Lyra, and Ned took one look at his daughter's hands and immediately grew angry, demanding why he wasn't told earlier, why his children were dragged in front of the King, and why his daughter's wounds hadn't been tended to.

"We did not mean to scare them" King Robert sighed.

From there, the conversation grew more intimidating. Joffrey, as Lyra would expect from him, lied about the ordeal, claiming that the girls and their sweet, innocent friend, Mycah, had surrounded him with sticks and beaten him, before letting their Direwolf on him. Arya grew angry, but Lyra couldn't deny her sense of relief, and she felt it in her father beside her-he hadn't mentioned Lyra being an Outsider, so perhaps he hadn't found out.

When the Queen said, "Joffrey will bare these scars for the rest of his life", Ned scowled and said, "And what of my daughter's scars?"

"You should teach her better", Cersei replied rudely.

This confused Lyra. Her father had always told her to do the right thing, and that family comes first. All she thought she did was protect her sister and friend from Joffrey's anger and cruelty. She was tempted to yell something to her, much like Arya, but held her tongue, grateful her big secret hadn't been discovered, and Lev hadn't come into the argument.

They called upon Sansa to enter the room, and say what she saw. Sansa had been there and she saw the whole thing, the cruelty of the Prince's actions, and the defensiveness of her sisters. Lyra thought Sansa would tell the truth, but she was wrong.

"I don't know" Sansa stated, "It all happened too fast".

"LIAR!" Arya screamed, grabbing her sister's hair, prompting Joffrey to grin smugly and Cersei to say, "She's as wild as that animal of hers".

That was when Lyra relented, and knew that whatever Arya argued, or Ned or Sansa said, the Prince's lies would always take precedence over all other words and claims, even if they were truthful. Lyra held in her anger, and tuned out deciding hearing any more lies were unbearable. One day, this sour boy was going to be a king, _her_ king, and the thought made her sick. She was in pain, she was tired, she just wanted to go home, to run to the Godswood and be on her own again. Somewhere secluded, where she could run and play and be herself, and not be haunted by fears of her own execution and being found out to be something she was born as. She felt tears welling up in her eyes, and fear building up in her chest.

She tuned back in to hear a soldier say that, though they looked, they couldn't find the Direwolf. Nymeria had obviously escaped, which made Arya breathe out a sigh of relief next to her.

"We have two other wolves" Cersei broke the silence, an evil grin creeping across her face.

And that was when Lyra knew; her Direwolf's fate was sealed. She'd been so worried about Lev being discovered, or Nymeria being captured, she'd naively believed Chief, her own wolf companion, would be deemed innocent and he would be safe.

Lyra joined in with Sansa pleading for her Direwolf, begging for Chief to be spared.

"Please have mercy!" the little girl cried, just before a person emerged from the shadows, having previously been loitering, overhearing, and waiting to sink his fangs in.

Lyra immediately recognised the shadow as Ser Deacon. He was a colossal man, towering over all in the room and double their sizes in muscle. He was ivory toned, and Lyra could have sworn his teeth were fangs. His bald head glistened with sweat, and he always had a macabre grin, which made his presence menacing. His harrowing eyes bored into Lyra, as he growled, "There is no such thing as mercy".

Scared, she stared at the giant in fright for a moment, before turning to her father and the King to continue pleading for Chief's life. And, once more, Ser Deacon, wearing a mask of malevolence, snarled again, "There is no such thing as mercy".

Lyra silently disagreed, mercy did exist. Her brother's and sister's rescued their Direwolves; that showed mercy. Once their was a stray cat named Neva around Winterfell, and though Lyra wasn't allowed to keep it, Eddard permitted Lyra to leave it food. That was mercy. Everything was going so wrong, everything was so unfair, everything was so unjust, but mercy existed. Mercy had to exist, or else the world would be nothing but darkness.

Thankfully, but rather shockingly, it seemed the King had an ounce of mercy in him. "There is no need to kill both. Only one was at fault, only one needs to pay the price", his gruff voice rumbled.

And that was that, the King had spoken, and her father was ordered to kill one of his daughter's Direwolves. Sansa and Lyra were still sobbing, still pleading, still begging. Ned ordered the captain of Winterfell's guards, Jory, to take the girls to their chambers, and to find someone to stitch up Lyra's hands.

It was all too overwhelming. The pain of her wounded hands, the fear of being discovered as an Outsider, the grief of losing her beloved Direwolf. She was faint, and overwhelmed, and desperately wishing to go back home where she felt safe, where she felt loved. Jory scooped her up in his arms, and kindly whispered something along the lines of, "Hang on, little Lady, we'll get you fixed up".

Just as exhaustion engulfed her, her last thoughts flicked rapidly to her innocent friend, and the day she got him. He was the biggest of the puppies, and ironically Lyra was the smallest of all the children. Chief was named from a story Jon would frequently tell her, regarding a brave Knight by the same name. The character was both strong, but sensitive, and, as Jon described him, like a fierce, unstoppable force in battle. And Lyra wished that for her companion.

Her final thought was a prayer to the Old Gods and the New that he would be safe.

And then, as all brave Knights eventually do, she surrendered to the darkness.

 **Hello, I hope you are enjoying the story! As this is my first story, I would greatly appreciate your comments and advice. I know where I want this story to go, but I need to know if YOU, the readers, are enjoying- so please, feel free to** **comment** **advice. Thank you in advance, it truly does mean a lot!**


	11. The Shadow of a Warrior

Kings Landing

The days had done nothing but drag.

They moved along so slowly, Lyra was surprised when the sun wandered down from his place in the sky, and the moon, who Lyra much preferred, took up her spot for the night shift, keeping watch over the sleeping world.

Her days had been spent either in a secretive Helai-lesson with Maester Leland, or in her chambers. That, or avoiding Sansa. She was still mad, and Lyra doubted if her older sister would ever forgive her. Weeks ago, when the King had ordered the death of one of the Direwolves, either Sansa's or Lyra's, Ned had spared Chief. The decision confused Lyra, though she was immensely grateful, but in Sansa's eyes it was all Lyra's fault, and a slur on her father's love for her.

Sansa brought the storm, and Lyra tried her best to attain shelter.

Such shelter, Lyra sought, was time learning with Lev and Maester Leland, lessons that had been abruptly ended on their departure from Winterfell. And now, with more opportunity to find solitude, the lessons were, at long last, able to resume.

"Be authoritative, my child", Leland instructed. For an Outsider at four years old, it was expected that a Helai could do more than Lev could do. Lyra could occasionally instruct Lev to come when his name was called, or when she whistled a specific, yet brief, harmonious tune, and periodically make herself feel an emotion in order to let Lev change species in mimic of her soul. Yet, according to Lyra, it wasn't enough.

Outsiders had a varying degree of skill. Some had no authority, and their Helai would simply remain, and settle, as the one creature, some outsiders were able to call their Helai's and verbally command their change into one or two separate species, some, like Maester Leland's Helai, Sella, were trained to change in hundreds of different species with just one simple command.

The very best Outsiders, however, were few. Only a couple had roamed, and most were butchered with the rest of their kind. Any survivors would undoubtedly be residing, in hiding, in the Land of Souls. These Outsiders were Lyra's inspirations. They were united to such an extent with their Helai's, a simple thought of an animal would be a great enough command to change the Helai's species. In the space of ten seconds, the animal would change from a butterfly, to a hawk, to a wolf, to a tiger.

Alas, Outsiders and Helai's were lethal in battle. Outsiders were warriors, and Helai's were their shadows. Sly, but deadly. They were the shadows of a warrior, and they were powerful.

"Lev, come" Lyra ordered, trying to be authoritative as her Maester had instructed. Lev, a baby white owl, shook his feathers and pecked under his wing, ignoring Lyra's command.

"Lev, come!" Lyra said again, following it with his special whistle. Still the baby bird would not budge.

"Think it child! He is your soul, communicate with your mind! Come on now!"

Lyra stared intently at Lev, her blue eyes boring into him, commanding him mentally to come to her. It was useless, a minute passed with nothing but Lev childishly hooting at Sella, who was perched as an Eagle by Maester Leland. Lyra sighed out, frustrated, and broke eye contact with Lev.

Almost instantly, Maester Leland was announcing, "Don't break focus, my child!"

"It isn't working. Sometimes it does, sometimes it doesn't. Lev isn't in the mood" Lyra said, regrettably. She braced herself for a lecture from her old Maester.

Maester Leland relented with a sigh, but Lyra noticed a sympathetic, and rather understanding, fog in his grey eyes.

"Sit down, child" he instructed, patting the bench next to him.

"I failed?" Lyra asked sadly.

"No child. You are right, but you are also very wrong. Sometimes things don't work, which means you must try it another way. Find another way to control Lev. You are both young, you are both innocent, you have years to connect. Yet, my dear one, you are also wrong in your words. You claim Lev lacks understanding, but it is truthfully you. Lev can hear your words, but not your mind. He is your soul. To understand him, you must understand yourself."

Lyra thought about his words of wisdom, and though she nodded and pretended to be deep in thought, the truth was she was confused. She always heard Outsiders were supposed to feel connected to their Helai's, yet Lev just seemed like a pet, not an extension of her-and certainly not a reflection of her soul.

Maester Leland looked at his little student's morose face and sunken shoulders. He put his arm around her feebly, feeling his age and certainly sounding it with a painful groan.

"I didn't connect with Sella until I was seven, three years older than you are now. My father, an Outsider before me, was my teacher. He showed me his way of communicating with his Helai, yet it never worked for me. Much like my method isn't working for you."

Lyra looked up at him and tried to smile, though very weakly.

Leland rose slowly, groaning and creaking, and began shuffling to the door, his grey cloaks trailing behind him and his grey beard glowing with sweat from the workout. He clicked and Sella flapped to his side, transforming into a loyal dog by his side before he left the room. He turned around and smiled at Lyra, giving Lyra hope that one day she could be in control of Lev.

Just as he was about to leave the room, Leland spoke in a hushed tone, "Sometimes great heartache is the only way to truly unleash your soul, to connect with your Helai. It was only then that Sella understood me completely. The dark side is more important then the light, it shows what you are truly made of."

The hairs on Lyra's neck stood on end, quickly asking, "what do you mean?" But it was too late, her Maester had left the room and any further talk of Outsiders and Helai's were against the rules outside the walls of the room.

Great heartache, Lyra thought.

What heartache had her Maester endured, and what heartache would Lyra have to endure to connect with her Helai. Her family was slowly getting scattered. Her mother had departed Winterfell for a reason kept secret from her, three of her brothers were still at home, Jon was at the Wall, and, thankfully, her father and sisters were still together.

Before she left the room, she looked at Lev and he looked at her. He tilted his head in curiosity, and Lyra couldn't help but smile. He was annoying, but he was sweet, and quite frankly Lyra would be lost without him.

She turned to leave the room, and Lev soared to her side. He might not listed to her, he might not understand her, but he would always follow her.

She would be the warrior, and he would forever be her shadow.


	12. The Monster in the Mirror

King's Landing

Lyra always felt divorced from everyone. Even if she was in a room, filled with jovial people, she somehow felt alone. She felt that no one understood her.

A couple of years prior, a figure had appeared in Lyra's mirror. What started out as a shadow, turned into what Lyra deemed a Monster. The monster in the mirror. It scared Lyra so much most nights she would find herself in her parent's bed. However, on the eve of her fourth Nameday, Eddard had led her back to her own chamber, looked between the mirror and his daughter, and told her it was time to grow up, get brave and face her fears.

No one but Lyra knew that it was the truth, not a childish fable, or vivid imagination. It was then that she'd either join one of her older siblings in their beds, or just wander the corridors for hours at night with a lantern, avoiding any mirrors, and huddling in a corner somewhere.

Nonetheless, the fear was always there.

Her father never wanted to deny that his daughter might be telling the truth, as he had never known Lyra to lie. She was always a truthful child, mature and wise beyond her years. However, lately, the things Lyra said were far beyond his help, and the little girl knew he was worried about her.

Lyra said things beyond anyone's imaginings. On occasion when the wind would blow, Lyra would stop and ask, "Who's there?" When her parents or siblings would ask her who she was talking to, she'd claim she heard voices in the wind. Ice-cold voices that sent a shiver down her spine, whispers she couldn't quite understand, except the mere word "Lyra".

Looking into the fireplace one cold night at Winterfell, she said, staring intently as the flames danced, "Look daddy, a dragon!" He rose from her bed and went to the fireplace, where he saw nothing.

"What are you talking about, my girl?" he had asked her, but Lyra had spoken no more on the topic. The figure in the fire had gone, and Lyra only mentioned it a few times, every couple of moons following the incident.

"I see dead people" she said innocently another day during a stitching lesson with Septa Mordane and her sisters. The Septa had immediately hurried her to her parents, interrupting her father's meeting. Lyra had said it with an innocent intent, her tone of voice casual, which, perhaps, was why there was much fuss over the comment. This time, her father sought her wise Maester, Leland. There, with her parents and Maester Luwin nervously standing around her little frame, Lyra described the figures she'd seen.

They were unrecognisable, ghastly, with maggot-eaten flesh dripping off their decaying bone, gaping holes instead of eyes, and an odd sadness about them. They were never clear to the girl, she made habit of mentioning, only a figment of her peripheral vision, something only the corner of her eye caught. The dead didn't scare her as much as the monster in her mirror, they made her feel like she was less alone.

Lyra still saw them to the present day. The wind spoke to her, and the dead followed her. It was so normal now, an occurrence that was no longer a novelty.

However, the monster in the mirror scared her immensely.

One windy night in particular, just a tiny figure all alone in her large chamber, she found herself huddled underneath her covers. Her mirror has been covered by a blanket, in the hope that if she couldn't see the monster, perhaps it would disappear. Clasped in her tiny hands, glowing with nervous sweat, was a candle, the flame gently danced in the breeze, daring to flicker out and leave her in the frightful dark. As the gentle breeze rushed through her room, so did the voices that so frequently whispered to her.

"Lyra", the eerie tone uttered. The voice was ice cold and morbid, like death itself was talking to her. Lyra's eyes fluttered to her side, seeing if the dead that roamed in her peripheral vision were present, but they failed to linger. Perhaps they were terror-stricken of the monster in the mirror, too, the child wondered.

"Lyra", the macabre voice whined again, "Lyra, Lyra". At last she drew breathe, as she'd been holding it for some time. As she gasped, the flame of her candle dwindled once more, as if to be hiding as well. The girl's eyes were glued to the portion of mirror the blanket failed to cover, the icy blueness breaking through the darkness, tears of fear glistening.

Lyra needed to close her window, to prevent the wind from rushing into her room and speaking with her. She pried her eyes away from her mirror to notice the shutters wide open, wildly rattling in the wind. Just as she quickly shifted her eyes from the window to the mirror, a spine-chilling shadow sprinted across the reflective glass, forcing the blanket to slip off the mirror into a lump on the floor. Now there was nothing to protect Lyra, nothing to prevent her making eye contact with it.

The monster was ready to feast.


	13. Her Soul's Escape

King's Landing

Her eyes never left the mirror, and her back never turned.

She reached behind her to close the shutters of the window. Just as she slammed them shut, the flame of the candle, sitting on her nightstand, flickered to nothing before extinguishing altogether.

Darkness. Now there were only faint shapes in her chamber. Yet, one figure was more obvious than the rest. One figure pressing it's grey form against the mirror threatening to break out.

The monster.

Lyra sidled discreetly back to the small table beside her bed. Wolf, the knife Jon had gifted to her, rested, awaiting use. Reaching for the knife, her little hands trembling in fright, she eyed the monster as it backed away, out of vision.

"P-please don't hurt me", the little girl sighed timidly, still reaching slowly for her own weapon. She understood it made little sense pleading for mercy, when she, too, was reaching for a weapon, but her fright was extreme. The monster had lingered in her mirror for over a year, and one day, Lyra knew it was going to find a way out.

Lyra hesitantly tiptoed toward the mirror, Wolf clutched in her hand. Soon she was standing not even a metre from her reflection, but the monster was no where to be seen. Yet, Lyra refused to be relieved. It was worse now that she couldn't see the monster, for now she hadn't a clue where it was. For the first time since the its arrival in her mirror, it wasn't the monster staring back at her that scared her-it was the sudden absence of it.

She heard a gentle growl behind her, Lev undoubtedly had changed to match her fear, but undeniable bravery. Reluctantly, Lyra peeled her eyes off the mirror and turned to face Lev- a young wolf. Lev had only changed into a wolf a couple of times in the past four years, each time making Lyra proud as she felt like a true Stark if the animal that mimicked her soul was her house sigil. However, pride was not something Lyra had time to feel, and fear, quite quickly, rushed back to her, overwhelming her.

Her back had been turned for less than five seconds, but almost as soon as her eyes left the mirror a terrible dread settled in. The feeling that someone was watching her- the feeling she always got when the monster was prowling-caused her heart to skip a beat. Lev, perhaps in mimic of her dread, or perhaps as he saw something, leaped back, almost squealing.

Lyra spun around to face the mirror. The monster was there, staring at her square in the face. Its ice blue eyes almost mimicked hers in beauty, but its skin was pale, and bumpy with old wounds that seemingly failed to heal. Helm on head, icy sword at its side and black and grey armour and tattered clothing adorned it's hideous body, it was both ghastly and terrifying.

It reached its ice hand forward, threatening to penetrate the mirror that parted the girl and the beast. Lyra, air caught in throat, trusted her knife into the mirror. The reflection cracked, sending a sharp line from top to bottom of the glass. She retracted the knife and thrust it into the mirror again, and continued until the monster retreated. The glass shattered from the frame of the mirror and fell to the floor like a harsh rainfall. Lyra, bloodied all up her arms and legs, crumpled to the floor amidst the sea of shattered glass, oblivious to the blinding pain that shot through her little body.

Then she screamed.

She screamed, nothing in particular, until her throat was ripped war. Not until tears squeezed out of her eyes and chased each other down her reddened cheeks, did she refuse to settle. She was so overwhelmed by all that had happened. A surge of fear, anger, and frustration rippled through her little body. She covered her head, and shrivelled into a ball, looking smaller than she had ever looked in her life, shaking violently.

She didn't notice the flood of people in her chamber. She tuned it all out, her mind was blank except for the image of the monster.

Gradually, her senses returned as her mind awoke from its shutdown. She felt her father's hands on her, the voices of her sisters, the deep grey of her Maester's eyes, the pang of fear deep in her gut unsure where Lev was, if he had been spotted, or if he'd fled.

Her mind, however, continued to flicker between reality and the nightmare of her mind.

 _The monster, the monster, the monster._

Her mind screamed, repeating almost psychotically. The monster. It's ice stare, the fear of its approach ripped through her mind like a knife.

It was then that pain returned to her, toppling her little body like waves she couldn't emerge from. The pain in her hand, still healing from when she grabbed the Prince's blade and it sliced into her small hands. Pain up her legs and arms, moist with blood. Pain in her throat from her screaming.

She heard a voice asked timidly what had happened, a soft voice in her mind, asking herself.

"The monster" Lyra replied.

The voice asked again, to which Lyra replied, once more, "the monster".

 _The monster, the monster, the monster._

She felt herself be ripped away once more, the voice of her soul grew fainter, the pain more distant, the tender touch of her father light on her skin, the grey of Leland's eyes blending to black.

In her mind she saw a butterfly. A white butterfly, illuminated by the dark of her mind. A butterfly, to an Outsider, was the symbol of freedom. Lev. Dancing in the wind, Lev continued to soar. Her soul continued to soar.

She was unlocked from the confines of her body, holding her soul like a cage. She danced like a butterfly in the wind.

She was free.


	14. The Cage of the Soul

King's Landing

It was a few days later when she was caged again.

Her soul found its way back into her scar-riddled little body, and she emerged with her old Maester sitting beside her, his eyes painful with worry. The week was absent from her, the day her soul escaped a blur. Still, the icy stare and morbid fear of the monster in her mirror remained.

That dreadful night, all that was heard was the shattering of glass and Lyra's terrified scream. Her father, among several others, entered her chamber to find her crumpled in a ball and bleeding, shaking violently, repeating, "The monster, the monster, the monster".

Maester Leland, an Outsider like Lyra, understood what was happening, and watched her soul retreat that night. To put her into a deep, dreamless sleep, she was given a few drops of Essence of Nightshade, and all they could do was hope her soul would return.

The butterfly in her mind vanished, and the darkness changed to blurred colour. 'I'm free', Lyra echoed in the silence, 'I'm free".

"I'm caging you again, my child", a muffled voice replied.

The room where she lay prone swam up to meet her, the brightness of the day cutting through the darkness she'd soared through.

She felt his presence beside her, and instantly felt safe. The grey of his eyes was the tone before her world went black. "You are caged again, my sweet Lyra, for you are not ready to soar. An important destiny awaits you", his gentle voice informed her.

A deep sadness flooded her. She had never felt so empty, so trapped. Like a bird with its wings clipped, peering through the bars of a cage, dreaming of the breeze.

"My soul is an animal, my body the cage", the little girl replied monotonously. Being "caged" was a term common among Outsiders, as their souls frequently itched to escape the confinements of reality, a feeling that was strong in youth, when all the child wanted was to be free.

"Briefly, my child, you escaped. 'Soul's Escape' isn't a condition or state to take lightly", the old Maester uttered. "You should consider yourself lucky your soul returned to you, I've known many who have been lost forever, their soul floating away."

Before long, but after a lengthy silence from Lyra, Maester Leland began to heave himself out of the chair, before groaning, "Now, I must find your father, he shall be most pleased to hear of your soul's return."

After a long pause, Lyra finally asked, rather hesitantly, "Where...is Lev?"

Leland became stationary suddenly, refusing to turn around, as if he was thinking of what to say before finding an answer for his young student. Then he spoke, almost harshly, "You lost him, you find him. He is your soul."

Lyra felt tears build up in her eyes, and she was reluctant to ask- "I-is he d-dead..?"

"Lyra, my dear one, if Lev were dead, a part of you would be too. You are merely sad in his absence, it is a different feeling to lose a Helai. An Outsider who loses their Helai, you must remember, loses their soul. They become one with a morbid fixation, beings with no empathy, it is speculated they lose their inner-being. Therefore, due to how you are today, since your soul as re-entered your body-was caged again- I'd say he is nearer than you feel. You are too young to know his presence in your heart, but it will come."

Maester Leland continued on his path to the door, but was interrupted again by a question from Lyra that shocked him.

"Maester, am I evil?"

He almost choked on air caught in his throat. However, deep down, he knew Lyra would ask such a thing, because, perhaps he'd questioned it as well. This time is was Leland who offered a long silence.

"I...I don't know what it all means, my child. The voices you hear, the dead that follow you, the monster in your mirror. What I do know, however, is it is up to you. You will change as life changes, and then I know you will decide."

"You know, though, don't you. You know about my destiny, you know what I will become."

"Perhaps, Lyra, but-"

"Am I the Monster?" Lyra interrupted, "Am I the monster, and am I evil?"

Maester Leland shuffled over to the bed, waving his hand gently as if to quieten her. "Shh, my child, listen to me: It is up to you". He enunciated the words to ensure she heard properly.

Lyra, caught in a blur of panic, interjected, "Was the monster in the mirror my reflection".

"Ah, my child, I'm saddened to tell you, though I may be educated, I am unsure what the monster means, what it is to you, and what _you_ are to it. Alas, I am unable to say anything more of comfort. Only that you have not just one wolf within you, you have two. A good wolf and a bad wolf. Feed the one you must, and then you will know if you, too, are what you deem 'good' and 'bad'".

"What is good and bad? What do they mean really?" Lyra said softly, almost to herself. Again the Maester stopped, and positioned to face her, with a look of admiration this time.

Lyra continued, "I mean, what if the good people turn bad, and the bad people were once good. There is no strict place for them, is there? There is a thin line. An easy one to cross, and return."

"You are wise", Leland breathed, "That is why your Helai is commonly an owl. He changes species like the wind, but he knows what you are at heart-a wise old soul. It will become most useful as you meet your destiny."

He reached for the door, and swung it open. His Helai was standing sentry by the door, as an inconspicuous brown frog on a wooden table. Lyra smiled, and waved as her Maester left to fetch her father.

Once the door was shut, she softly whistled Lev's special tune to call him. However, nothing came, and the feeling of loneliness returned. Once more, she tried again, still to no prevail. It was then that she heard it-a soft chirping sound. She leaped out of bed and rushed over to the window, flinging it open. There she saw him- Lev- in the form of a little white bird, standing proudly, arguably larger in size and stance then last Lyra saw of him. She'd grown up a lot since the latest appearance of the monster, and, therefore, so had Lev.

Lev flapped onto her bandaged arm, and Lyra tried to kiss his head, but he moved away and rubbed his head under his wing in disgust. Lyra, at last, found herself giggling at him, at the personality within him.

Though she was caged, trapped once more in the dungeon of her body, her soul was at peace.


	15. Meeting a Real Knight

King's Landing

Lyra wasn't fond of extravagance.

Nonetheless, it seemed the only way the Southerners knew how to live life was in the most extravagant form possible. To Lyra's dismay, she was a noble lady, therefore her attendance was expected at all events. So was her sitting like a lady, which proved more a challenge than she thought. Lyra had mutually accepted that she would just always have to wear pants under her dress as being lady-like was not her forte.

Lyra didn't care much for it. All extravagance seemed to be was to lord power over those less fortunate, or those prone to uprising, or to brag about wealth. It proved a point for the Royal family of Stag and Lion- We are in charge! Unconquerable, unmovable; that is the message the houses seemed to enforce.

The little Outsider had figured out that power was the reason for conflict, the reason people didn't get along, the reason the poor were separated from the rich, like they had any lesser value or worth in the world. Almost like they were diseased, or, like they were Outsiders. Unwanted. Unloved. Undeserving of any equity, dignity, or respect. Lyra felt her chest knot, and felt for Lev, a tiny beetle, in her pocket, rubbing his white back for comfort.

The newest extravagance, however, Lyra was slightly keen for. It was the Hands Tourney, celebrating her father, Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell, becoming King Robert Baratheon's new Hand of the King. There would be knights and horses and fighting, and every opportunity to dream that in a few years perhaps, and with a masculine disguise, she could very well compete.

She'd tucked Wolf gently into his scabbard, and had found herself a helm. Some would say she stole it, Lyra preferred "permanently borrowed". Before the tourney, Lyra sprinted around the castle, swinging a wooden sword, yelling out remarks from her imaginary battle field, and pretending to ride a horse where real knights would be riding in the coming hours. She often thought how good she was in battle-however, since all were in her mind, she frequently considered the bias of her review. As she was fighting a particularly tough mental figment, she took a blow to her arm. She fell to the ground clutching the wound, but managed to swing her wooden sword and defeat the thin air. She rose triumphantly and sent an admirable nod to her comrades before requesting the wounded be placed on horses, and the dead buried...no, burned, and their families notified.

"You fought well", a voice sailed through the air. He had a thick accent that Lyra identified as being from "elsewhere". His hair was dark and lank and dripped down over his face, blending into his beard like a curtain. He had several wrinkles that suggested his age, but a sprightly step that maintained his youth. A sword was attached at his waist, and he wore armour, but failed to bear a sigil. The man's face erupted into a crooked smile and he threw his head back and cackled at the sky, as if he expected the sun to join in the joke, too.

Lyra, overcome with embarrassment, shrivelled up and hoped he was a figment of her mind as well. With chin to chest, she prepared for a quick departure. The man, however, walked over, each stride matching six of Lyra's, and stood almost three times the size of her. As he approached Lyra, he pointed at nothing and asked, teasing the girl's imagination, "I'm not standing on anyone, am I?" Then, once more, he threw his head back and laughed to the sun.

Seeing Lyra's displeasure, the man stooped down and met her face, and grinned at her, and Lyra couldn't help but grin back, albeit sheepishly.

"And what shall I call you-", the man said, "Ser..."

"Lyra"

"Ser Lyra, what a pleasure. I am Ser Kaelo."

"The pleasure is mine", Lyra giggled, gripping her dress, and feeling her face flush red.

She secured her weapons at her waist again, and removed the helmet from her head, squinting as she looked up toward the sun to find Kaelo's face. He was still wearing a cheeky grin, but his eyes danced with kindness, and his voice grew gentle, like her father's.

"So, what made you want to become a knight...Ser?" Kaelo asked, placing his hand on the little girl's shoulder affectionately.

"My brothers, Ser, they always fight, they..." Lyra began, but silenced herself promptly. It hit her suddenly, her brothers. She had masked the sadness, but when mentioned, it was like pouring salt on a wound. She missed her home, and the hours she'd spend with Jon. Her mother's touch, Rickon's laugh, and Robb's voice.

And Bran.

Bran, her middle brother who dreamed of nothing more than becoming a soldier. Bran, who was so excited at accompanying his father and sister's to King's Landing. Bran, who had awoken from his one-month sleep with a sound mind, but his legs refused to wake up. He wouldn't be able to run with her again, or pick her up to reach the top of her cupboard, or race into her room when she was scared. He would be crippled forevermore. He could lead a holdfast, but not an army on the battle field.

She thought, and suddenly she felt tears fill er eyes.

Kaelo, sensing her sudden sadness, changed the topic and drew his sword. "Have you heard the adage that the greatest blades have names?"

"Yes", Lyra answered, before drawing out her own blade, smiling subtly and saying, "This is Wolf."

Kaelo, referring to his sword, which was almost the length of Lyra, grinned and said, "This is Toothpick."

"Toothpick?!" Lyra snorted. She had never heard such a silly name, but she loved it.

"My sister's blade is Needle", Lyra, regaining her composure, remembered of Arya's own little blade.

"You both have a talent for naming. Listen, my dear Knight, I must go and talk to the other knights, but will you be watching the Tourney?"

"Yes, Ser. I pray the Gods give you a good win."

"I pray that, too. And I pray I never fight you on the field. You fight well". With that, he headed off, but not before cackling at the sky one final time.

Lyra watched him walk away, beaming, thinking of being a Knight alongside him.

She headed for the castle again, forgetting of the imaginary battle field that she was departing from. For now, the battle was in her head. Ser Lyra and Ser Kaelo, a force to be reckoned with.

Kaelo and Toothpick, Lyra and Wolf; how unconquerable they would be on the battle field.


	16. Victims of Her Soul

Kings Landing

 _Jon._

Lyra wrote his name, and tears swam up to meet her eyes. Jon-she missed him dearly, hence the letters the two had written to one another. Jon had described the Wall, way up North, in all its blandness, and Lyra described the South, in all its bitterness.

 _My heart never knew loneliness until you went away. I pray Castle Black is fun and you have made lots of friends. I have been practising with Wolf, the blade you gave me, a lot. I can not wait to fight my your side one day, brother. Arya loves Needle too, only she threatens to skewer Sansa an awful lot! Sansa prefers jabbing me with her sewing needles._

She held Wolf close to her chest as she wrote. Jon had told her to hold it close when she missed him. She very rarely didn't. At night she'd whisper his words, "Courage, Lyra", and pretend he was hugging her. She was reminded, and tears fell down her cheeks.

 _Lev still does not listen to me much, but Maester Leland says he will in time. He only comes when he is called, but even then that is rare. One day I will change him with my mind, I know of it. We will be strong in battle._

Lyra reconsidered writing the last line, but eventually opted to keep it. She was nervous who would get their hands on the letter before Jon, or whether it would even find itself at Castle Black at all. Lyra had a blissful innocence; she trusted people with no concern that not everyone was of good intent, something, undoubtedly, she would lose as she aged.

She decided, however, to write no more on her Helai. Jon was Bastard and Lyra was an Outsider, they were outcasts together; perhaps that was why they were so close, why they could understand one another. She almost felt guilty to be an outcast without Jon by her side.

 _I try and have courage because a knight does. Because you are. I met a knight last week called Ser Kaelo, he called me Ser Lyra, and showed me his sword named Toothpick. I saw him again today, and I showed him how I throw knives. He told me I was taught well._

 _Every time I hear a bird, I hear you whisper "Courage, Lyra". I miss you, Jon._

 _Love, your little sister,_

 _Lyra_

She rolled up the parchment and fetched her father to assist with the Stark sigil seal, and together they sent the raven off to the wall. Lyra watched as it flew off into the distance, soaring North, past Winterfell, and into the blistering cold of the Wall.

After the raven had soared, she went in search of Maester Leland. He was seated behind a large table, he was flicking through an inordinate book fervently, muttering inaudibly.

"May I sit with you, Maester?" she asked. The old man looked up, his serious face easing a slightly and offering a gentle smile.

"Yes you may, my child."

Lyra opened her brown leather book with a stitched owl on the front, and found a blank page of parchment. In her pocket, she reached for a lump of charcoal, which she'd nicked from the fireplace one night as she liked drawing with it for the tone it provided. She began drawing what was on her mind, what was always on her mind. The face that never left her, the face that made her refuse to look in the mirror: the monster.

The pages of her books were filled with haunting images her Maester would never understand. One page exhibiting the empty faces of lost souls, another had rotting corpses, the corpses Lyra saw over her shoulder on occasion, another page had nothing but "Lyra" written many times; the way the wind whispered to her. Leland eyed the parchment, but no words came to him. His student continued drawing, not fussing or even noticing his concern.

A knock on the door interrupted her concentration. She looked up from her drawing, and faced the door; the knocking didn't subside. She looked at her teacher, who didn't seem bothered by the sound.

"Aren't you going to answer that, Maester?" she asked.

After a delay, and a look of absolute confusion, Leland spoke, "Answer what?"

"The door."

Leland looked between the door and his young student, puzzled. "There is nothing there."

Lyra thought, perhaps, since he was old, he was hard of hearing, but she dared not speak and insult him. Instead she rose from her chair and went to the door. A slight chill ran down her spine, welcoming dread to her gut, antagonising the butterflies in her stomach. Perhaps she didn't want to know what was behind the door, perhaps she was better for not knowing.

Nonetheless, the curiosity, as it often did, got the best of her. She began to open the creaky wooden door, holding her breathe, squinting her eyes in fear so much they were almost closed.

She opened the door to nothing, just the empty corridor, and no trace of anyone.

"Do you see anyone, my child?", her Maester asked.

Lyra just shook her head, and wallowed in confusion. She did not understand any of this. Why, of all her siblings, was she the only one that could see things and hear things that weren't there.

"I don't understand...", she began, somewhat speechless.

Leland, who had risen from his chair, lumbered over and placed his hand on her shoulder, stooping to look into her eyes. He advised, his tone soft, "One day, I promise, you will."

Lyra felt another pang of fright, but the curiosity was still present. She often made stories in her mind of who the monster was, why the dead followed her, the wind whispered to her, and now, the door knocked without a person to do so. Recently, however, the stories had become somewhat darker. They used to be friends, but now they felt more like foe. As her soul matured, and Lev aged, her thoughts only grew darker.

Her fable was once that she was a monster and the dead were her followers. In recent weeks, the dead in the corner of her eye were no longer followers to her beastly self, rather, victims. Victims of her soul, perhaps, or of her monster. She feared for her destiny and who she would become.

Lyra held her breathe, too nervous to draw it in for a while. "Why do I see and hear things that aren't there."

"Just because others can't see them doesn't mean they aren't there."

"So they're real?"

Repeating the sentence he'd said earlier, he began, "One day, I promise..."

The man stooped even lower, an attempt to get closer, to conceal what he was about to say. Then, when the moment was tense, he continued:

"...They will be".


	17. Fierce by Nature

King's Landing

It was in the following weeks that Lyra learnt another lesson. You don't anger the Lannister's, or mess with their pride. The Lannister house sigil was a bold lion, yellow like the colour of their hair, fierce by nature.

Her parents broke the rule, and angered the Lannister's.

"If you poke a lion, what do expect it to do?" Maester Leland asked her one night.

"Get angry?" Lyra guessed.

"Yes. And if you disrupt the pride, what's a lion to do?"

"Attack you."

"Yes, my girl. Never attack a lion. Never anger a Lannister. Reprobates must cop the bite. "

Lyra's mother, however, was unsure of the lesson, it seemed to her, as she had proceeded to not only poke the lion, but disrupt the pride in one fell swoop.

The young girl was clueless about all the events that had happened in Winterfell, but due to the secrecy and urgency, she determined it must be linked to Bran. Her mother, as Lyra gathered, figured the Lannister's were responsible for Bran's accident, specifically the imp, and had taken him prisoner. Lyra refused to believe the only nice Lannister she had ever known was responsible for crippling her brother.

The imp Lyra had met at Winterfell seemed to be more a kitten to the little girl, not the large cat of their sigil. He was, thankfully, far more pleasant than Cersei. She had long yellow hair that matched her long face. A scowl was always lingering, and if she was to smile, it was a cunning smirk. Her twin brother was Jaime Lannister, known as the "Kingslayer" as he murdered the mad Targaryen King, Aerys. Neither seemed too disappointed about Bran's fall, but never ceased to question his survival.

Nevertheless, you could not say Jaime Lannister was disloyal to his family. He marched up to her father, surrounded by guards, and engaged in a fight, ordering him to control his wife and release his brother. The fight saw the death of Jory, the captain of her father's guards who was always so friendly to her, and a spear in the leg of her father. Of course, these were only stories Lyra heard. Everyone refused to tell Lyra the whole story and would only give her pieces to the puzzle, but clever as she was, she realised if she asked enough people, she could put the pieces together.

Alas, following the incident, she spent her days sitting by Eddard's side, despite his delirium, or picking flowers for him.

It doesn't do well to anger a Stag either; a stag of the house Baratheon. The Prince, Joffrey, was a mixture of both lion and stag, so there was no doubting his nastiness. Purely a stag, however, was the King, who had spent his youth with Eddard. Prior to the incident, her father had surrendered his position as Hand of the King and had instructed his three daughter's to prepare to leave back to Winterfell. Lyra was pleased, Arya wanted to make sure her dancing teacher could accompany, but Sansa complained, naturally, as she was supposed to be betrothed to the awful Prince.

Lyra was unsure what made her father wish to leave with such haste, but she knew it angered the King, because when Lyra visited her father, the pin had been thrown back at him. This came with the uninviting news that they would be remaining in King's Landing, and the secrecy of being an Outsider would continue.

When Eddard began to heal and move around, Lyra asked him about how mother poked the lion and stole from the pride. Her father smiled at her tenderly, placing an arm around her shoulders and kissed her forehead.

"Father?" Lyra asked

"Yes, darling?"

"Since a lion is fierce, are wolves fierce too?" she questioned, remembering her wolf heritage.

Eddard sighed deeply, a sad look falling over his face. He always seemed to know something more than Lyra about her destiny, and it often made him sad. He frequently told her "never change", but Maester Leland would contradict that by comforting her and saying, "Change is inevitable in time, but you mustn't forget who you are, what your soul is".

Nonetheless, they would always tell her, "Never forget this: You are Lyra Stark". They would emphasise her name, making Lyra question what was so important about it; how in Seven Hells would she ever forget who she was? Still, she'd smile and promise her father and Maester, the men who knew her destiny.

Her father looked at her woefully, before shuffling closer, and repeating the same line he told her every single night:

"You are Lyra Stark of Winterfell, daughter of Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn Stark. You are strong enough to withstand the storm, because you are the storm. You are my little Wolf."

He refused to leave until she had repeated it back to him:

"I am Lyra Stark of Winterfell, daughter of Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn Stark. I am strong enough to withstand the storm, because I am the storm. I am a wolf."

She was determined she'd never forget.

The Little Wolf was not to know the storm she was to endure.


	18. One of Your Kind

King's Landing

Through the dense forest she ran, sprinting as fast as her legs could carry her. She wasn't Ser Lyra this time, just a shadow, just an Outsider. Lev sprinted after her, sprinting as a petite white tiger, before leaping off the ground and turning in a small hawk, flapping his wings furiously to pace himself with his master. The things the two of them had seen that morning were worth the run, and Lyra's soul had been changed irreparably, forcing Lev to age up slightly.

An execution.

The King had ordered, prior to departing on a hunting trip, that a perfectly innocent man be executed. He had been a boy from a poor family, only to grow into an impoverished young man, now making a living cleaning dung out of the Royal stables. Lyra had met him once before, he accompanied the Southerners on their journey to Winterfell. He always looked at Lyra with an odd sympathy, while his expression was dull for everyone else. He understood her, and they had never even met.

It was only until his head rolled that she, at last, understood him.

The man was an Outsider.

"Kill him!" and "He's a monster!" disrupted her game with Arya in the early hours of the morning. Arya had Needle immediately drawn out of its small sheath, and Lyra had done the same with Wolf. The two girls tiptoed down the hallway, following the angry voices. The voices grew louder, but they were unable to see anything through the mass of people.

"Lyra, have a look around" her sister had told her as she was hoisted into the air. She could feel Arya's skinny arms tremble beneath her, still Lyra stretched herself as far as she was able, to see over the crowd. In front sat the King, seated on the Iron Throne, the chair made of thousands of swords. The Queen, Cersei, stood beside him, with her cunning expression still intact. Beside her was the small council, though she was unsure of all their names; the bald man was Varys, Lyra always thought he talked funny. The Kings brother, Renly, was present, smirking at the poor man. Also smirking was Littlefinger, who had spoken to Sansa the day of the Hand's Tourney.

"I don't know what's going on, it's hard to tell", she said, patting Arya's shoulder to be let down.

"Come on!" her sister had hissed, grabbing her wrist and dragging her into an isolated corridor, further away from the voices. Arya continued to drag Lyra, now rushing up a flight of steep stairs, undoubtedly forgetting she was holding her little sister due to her curiosity. As they ran further up the stairs, the voices appeared again, growing louder and louder.

It was only then that Lyra registered where Arya was taking her; the empty landing above the courtroom. Occasionally people would sit up here when the court was full, but as the conviction was sudden, no civilian had time to gather.

"He's a monster, kill him" the Queen had said.

"Please, Your Grace, I have a child!"

"Kill the child too." Cersei ordered.

The small council looked at her, failing to hide their shock. Surely they were to know by now, lions aren't kind, there was no limit to their ruthlessness.

"If the parent is infected, so will be the child", she argued, smirking at the man, who had collapsed in a pool of tears.

"Oh, shut your mouth you blasted woman. I am the king, I rule", King Robert interjected.

After a slight silence, the man sobbed, "Your Grace, may you permit me to ask one question?"

The King sighed, and looked around at the court angrily. "Fine, what is it?"

After a hesitant start, he stuttered, "W-what...w..what is my crime?"

The small council had discretely looked at each other, and the small crowd murmured confusedly together, as no one, not even the King, had an immediate response.

Naturally, though, Cersei did: "You're an Outsider, and should be slaughtered like the rest of your kind."

Arya had looked at Lyra, her mouth agape. The Little Wolf ignored Arya's reaction, and leaned against the wall, tears pricking her eyes.

Her sister had always been jealous of Lyra being an Outsider. Having an animal that mimicked your soul seemed a good thing; until she aged, and realised they were merely deer in a hunt with lions. Arrival at King's Landing had opened Arya's eyes, too. Lyra used to be eternal sunshine in a thunderstorm, but lately she'd been absent, torn apart, like something was missing. Her soul very frequently could not be anywhere near her, and she was empty.

Aghast, yet filled with anger, Arya said, "I'll 'em! I'll kill any one who hurts you. That I promise, little sister."

Lyra didn't care what Arya had to say, she only cared about retreating.

Tears pricked her eyes as she ran, and soon dribbled down her cheeks. Huffing and puffing, she ran further into the deep forest. She would run back to the North, she would leave this wretched place. She would go to the Land of Souls, deep in the Land of Always Winter, then journey back to the Wall, she would go to Jon.

 _I can't go to the Wall._

She realised, and the tears continued to stream. Fact of the matter, as she'd overheard prior to the execution, the Wall was trained to shoot Outsider's dead. Any Outsider that was to approach the Wall would be destroyed. They were alienated, murdered if they were in Westeros, and exiled beyond the Wall. Henceforth, they were associated with the White Walkers and Wildlings, and the Wall was constructed to keep them all out.

And Jon was part of it.

 _No, he can't have known, he can't have accepted. She'd sneak to the Wall and tell him, he'd be horrified._

She'd never felt so alone. She's never felt so hated, so hunted, so lost.

She fled to the dense forest behind King's Landing, Lev rushing behind her. She had never known the severity of her situation; the exact danger of her being an Outsider in King's Landing. Her father had known, so did her mother, still they sent her here. Rage boiled up inside her; she was sent here like a lamb going to the slaughter, and everyone had known and accepted.

How do you accept that you are going to be executed for no reason other than how you were born? That man was executed for a crime he didn't know he'd committed.

Lyra hugged her knees to her chest and hid her face. She'd always been one to enjoy solitude, but not solitude sparked by alienation. Sadness replaced anger now; her fifth nameday had been and gone and she'd spent it confined to her chamber, locked away so no one would know she was what they all deemed a 'monster'.

Lev pinned his ears back and rested his soft head on her knee, peering into her eyes. He knew of the sadness his master felt, for now he was forged by it; her soul was sad, and so was Lev. Gently Lyra moved her hand and slowly ran it through his white coat, and he ceased his yowling.

"Shh, my friend. One day we will find somewhere we belong. Somewhere we can be together. Somewhere we are respected."

 _"With you, Lyra, I will remain, for I am your soul and you are my anchor"_ a voice in her mind echoed, and though it had never happened before, she knew it was Lev.

Her soul, for the first time in her life, had spoken to her.

With her soul perched on her shoulder, she headed back to the castle she's fled from. Lev would always be with her, and that was the biggest comfort she'd had in the months they'd been in King's Landing.

They were united.


	19. Long May He Reign

King's Landing

The King was dead.

He had been injured during a hunting trip by a boar, and perished later that day. Lyra had always thought the King was nothing more than a doltish man, who enjoyed drinking and swearing and every woman except his wife. Yet, she felt an odd sadness now that he were deceased. He had a family - perhaps an annoying one - but they were still a family.

She offered her sympathies to her father, for he had grown up a brother to the King, and then, despite her hatred of him, sought the horrid Prince to extend her courtesies to him. He was going to be King now, Lyra thought, terrified, and the horrid Prince was going to be the horrid King, and her life was even further in danger.

"Your Grace, I'm deeply saddened to hear of your father. I extend my deepest of sympathies", Lyra rehearsed softly to herself as she sought him out. The phrase "your Father" rang in her mind, and she knew the echo was Lev. Since Lev had discovered he could communicate with Lyra by their thoughts, he had not shut up, giving a running commentary of every action she undertook.

The girl chucked to herself, and thought, "Shut it, Lev!", and the voice hushed. A white butterfly twirled in the air past her, daintily dancing on the breeze, but remained out of sight of anyone who might see him and suspect he was a Helai. A butterfly Helai was supposed to symbolise a sense of freedom experienced by the Outsider, yet Lyra could not work out how she was free; the King would soon be worse than she could possibly fathom. With that thought, Lev changed from a butterfly, back to his typical wise owl, and flew away.

"And what are you doing here, Ser Lyra?" she recognised the voice and spun around, grinning.

"Ser Kaelo! I was seeking the King to offer my sympathies."

"Ah, lass, that is very sweet of you, but the young Prince is cranky at the best of times, I don't think he'd respect the kindness of your intentions. Perhaps tell the Queen's handmaids to pass it on. Aye?"

Lyra nodded, and sent the message with a maid, and since it was going to her Queen, she picked a flower from a vase along the corridor and offered that, as well. Perhaps it was odd, gifting a flower that technically already belonged to her, but as Kaelo had pointed out, her intentions were kind.

Lyra looked at her muddied boots, "Ser, I'm returning to Winterfell in the days pending. King's Landing is no longer my home, no longer safe."

Kaelo looked sad for a moment, then smiled and said, "I'll be leaving King's Landing too, lass, when that little toad becomes King! Perhaps I'll stay near to you. It's been a number of years since I've been to the North."

After an awkward pause, and a minute of gawking at one another, Kaelo shattered the silence with his thick accent, "Well, watcha say, lassie, fancy a duel?", and with that he pulled Toothpick out playfully and chortled, "Ser Kaelo against Ser Lyra, watcha say?!"

Lyra feigned embarrassment and said sarcastically, "It's like being out with a hyperactive child." Then she looked up at him and grinned, "I'm going to win!" and with a cheeky cackle, she sprinted out of the castle.

They chased each other around the yard for what seemed like ages, until finally Kaelo's age caught up to him and he grew tiresome, yet his spirit was still strong and childlike. His face was wet with sweat, but red not with exhaustion, but laughter. He could hardly catch his breathe he was laughing so hard, grabbing his knees.

His soul was that of a Fennec, she thought; playful, vivacious and crafty. A small fox that always seemed a child. He was a man who failed to grow up, an outcast in his own right.

Kaelo thundered to the ground and panted, while Lyra collapsed next to him, ungainly for a little lady in a dress, but Kaelo didn't seem to mind. After a pause, Lyra asked, "Ser Kaelo, are you a Knight of King's Landing, do you serve Baratheon or Lannister?"

"No, Lass", he said with a relieved smile, "I'm no Southerner".

Lyra looked relieved too; she couldn't help but dislike Southerner's, and perhaps, should Kaelo find out about her being an Outsider, he wouldn't have her head on a chopping block.

"Are you a Northerner?" she asked.

"No..."

"A Westerner?"

"No...", and before Lyra could open her mouth an guess another compass point, Kaelo nipped it in the bud, "and I'm not from the East, either, Lass."

"Then where are you from?"

Kaelo shrugged, "I'm from wherever the hell I was last, which has been a wealth of places, little lass."

Lyra shuffled closer to Kaelo, who was now shoving a stick down his boot and scratching his foot with deep concentration.

"Then how are you " _Ser"_ Kaelo?" Lyra questioned, hoping her new friend wouldn't be offended.

He pulled his hand from his smelly boot and placed it on Lyra's shoulder, which made her insides churn. Then he smiled at her and said, "The same way you became a Knight, Ser Lyra".

"But I'm not a Knight, I just want to be one".

"Precisely."

Lyra could not have loved her friend more in that instant.

"One day we will fight side by side. Ser Kaelo and Ser Lyra, REAL knights." She said, remembering the same sentence she'd said to Jon before they both departed Winterfell.

And Kaelo, as if he was there that beautiful day, said with the same tender smile as Jon Snow, "One day".

Ser Kaelo accompanied Lyra to the castle, before heading off somewhere to stay the night. When Lyra asked him where he would go, he sniggered and pointed at random locations along the horizon. As he was departing, his smelly shoes strung over his shoulders, his bare feet gripping the dirt, Lyra called out, "Enjoy your adventure, Ser Kaelo!"

Kaelo spun, still lively, and called back, "That I will, Lass! Sleep well, my dear knight."

She returned to the castle to her father's worried voice, "Lyra, my child, where have you been? You know it is dangerous, especially now with King Robert's death and Prince Joffrey..." he trailed off, crouching down to bury his daughter's head into his chest.

"Lyra, you must always be safe, somewhere I can protect you. I sense a storm brewing, and you must be wary. You know our sigil, our house words - "

"Winter is coming", Lyra interjected

"We are wolves, our pack must remain together, not run off when it pleases us."

"Forgive me, Father", she begged. Her father kissed her on the head, before lightly hitting her back and saying, "Run along, little wolf, continue packing."

She ran back to her chambers, guards breaking into a sprint to keep up with their Little Lady to protect her as her father had ordered. She often went the long way to her chambers, to surpass any mirrors, an avoidance of the monster. This time, however, she decided to be brave, like a real knight.

And just as she crossed the path of the mirror, the beast returned. In the corner of her eye it was there, along with the ever-present army of dead people, looking at her wistfully.

Before she could squeeze her eyes shut, she noticed in her peripheral vision, something about the monster she'd never noticed before. Only now, after reading Maester Leland's book about beyond the Wall sneakily, did she have appreciation of the blue colouring of the Monster in the mirror.

It was a White Walker.


	20. Run

King's Landing

Her soul was getting stronger, she could sense it.

She was learning who she was, embracing the Outsider she was born as, and she knew her destiny would become clearer as her soul developed. Lev was still young, as was Lyra, and didn't always listen, but Maester Leland said they were bonding well, and working together as Outsider and Helai should. Lyra was confused what her Maester had spoken many months ago, when he said often deep heartache brought the soul closer. Lyra had been sad, even desperately angry, but never had her heart been broken.

They could most times communicate with just their minds, Lev, more times than not failing to shut up and let Lyra have thoughts of her own. Everyone takes for granted how peaceful their mind is until someone else occupies it.

"Your soul is strong, my child", Maester Leland beamed as Lyra whistled and Lev flew and landed on her shoulder, as a magnificent Snow Owl, ivory-toned and splendid.

"I still can't change his species with my mind though, like you can do with Sella" she said wistfully.

Leland smiled, whistled for Sella, and promptly she flew from a copper-coloured Eagle- powerful and clear- to an inquisitive, resourceful Pine Marten, foraging on the ground.

"We are one, my child, and in the years coming you and Lev will unite as one, too. You are his master, and he is your shadow. He needs you and you need him, and one day you will both learn this."

Lyra smiled up at him, her smile exhibiting gaps from baby teeth that had dropped out following her fifth nameday. It was effervescent and warm; Jon used to shield his eyes dramatically, saying that her smile was so bright it stung his eyes. The old man agreed. The girl kept him sane, and kept his soul grounded.

The old man smiled at her gently, before tears pricked his eyes. "You warm my cold heart, Lyra".

"You don't have a cold heart, Maester Leland".

"One day...I..." and then he stopped, and dabbed his eye.

And before she knew it, she was crying as well, for a reason she was unsure of. The sadness crept up to her and she couldn't chase it away, despite her best attempts.

It was a day that started out so happy. It was the day of their departure from King's Landing, and after a journey of a month, the family would be together again in Winterfell .

Her old Maester turned away, muttering to Sella, "Why her? Why a destiny so cruel, why a road so harsh" in a whisper so soft and unclear, Lyra only made out a few words.

Maester Leland reached out and stroked the girl's arm tenderly, before saying, with a hint of sorrow, "You mean more to me than I can explain, my child. Never forget that. Your future will be harsh, the world will be cruel, but hold onto the memories and treasure them. Go your own way, create your own path, but _never_ forget where you came from. Promise me that, Lyra, my sweet."

"I promise, Maester", she whispered, holding his hand comfortingly, curious as to what caused his sorrow.

Leland reached into a deep pocket of his grey cloak. His long grey beard and matching hair blended into his cloak like a curtain, or a mask that showed only his mournful blue eyes, effervescent like hers, and blanket of wrinkles. After a few moments of groaning, wincing and fiddling, he pulled out a small object wrapped in a scrap of grey cloth.

"This is for you, sweet Lyra. For you to always remember who you are."

The little wolf took the gift with much gratitude, and gently unwrapped it from the cloth. A teardrop shaped token made of ivory, strung by a thin strap of leather, with an owl carved neatly on one side, "Lyra" carved on the other. Lyra knew immediately what it was and flung her arms around her Maester's neck.

When an Outsider began to connect with their Soul they were gifted much the same necklace; only the creature carved and the name differed between necklace. It was the emblem of the tribe, the signature of an Outsider. Lyra, at her core, was a wise owl. Though her personality changed, and she herself changed with age and experience, her roots would always be that of an Owl.

Lyra had admired Leland's totem in the past; an eagle. Such an animal to symbolize the intelligence of the man, as well as his power, ambition and passion. The man that was executed was a Heron, the symbol of patience, peace and integrity. Lyra had hundreds of animals stored in her head; while her brother's learned of sigils, house words and holdfasts, Lyra learned the ways of the Soul. She, as she aged, would be able to look at any given man and judge their personality, or who they were at the core of their being. Thus, Outsider's were very good at judging who to trust, and quite often, in the cruel world Leland described, that number was very slight.

Lyra continued to squeeze Leland tightly, loving him desperately in that moment. The man who taught her who she was, and how to treasure her Soul. In the distance she could hear a racket, and the faint sounds of swords being drawn, and men shouting. She let go of her Maester curiously, only to see tears fill his eyes.

"Run" was the first thing he said, before Lyra could ask. Tears dribbled down his cheeks, as he gave Lyra a kiss on her own. "Run, my sweet, sweet Lyra. Run. The swords are coming for you."

Tears filled her eyes in an instant, her lip quivered so hard it began to go numb. Fear. She felt it rise again in her chest, the same feeling she felt when the Monster made itself known, and instantly she wanted her Father. She wished he was there to protect her, to cradle her, but he was absent.

 _Run,_ she told herself, and she heard Lev echo it back to her:

 _Run, Lyra, Run._


	21. Traitor

King's Landing

Nothing could have convinced her to stop running.

Behind her were shouts and crashes, men screaming as swords were plunged into their bodies - the ground of King's Landing was blanketed by a pool of Northern blood and the corpses of her father's guards littered every hall. Some guards saw the little lady attempt to escape, and serving her father loyally, heaved their bloodied bodies to protect her, only to soon droop and die by her side.

Lyra could barely see the path in front of her through the bodies and debris, and her vision fogged with tears. During the course of her run, her poor soul must have taken a beating, as Lev had soared and stopped talking to her; or perhaps it was just occupied. Nonetheless, she was on her own - running for a reason she wasn't sure of.

As she sprinted down the corridors, sticking to the darkness, she poked her head in each chamber to find someone, anyone, who would serve as a companion - her father, Sansa, Arya, Maester Leland, her Septa, anyone of familiarity. She gasped in sadness, the fear overwhelming her, and she began dry heaving in the corner. She shrivelled in a ball and wished her family was there. In a tiny, trembling ball of utter devastation, she She wished Jon would appear, like he did often times at Winterfell when she couldn't sleep at night.

By her waist, she felt Wolf, her small blade. She stroked the handle softly, and wiped the tears away with the back of her dirty hand - "Courage, Lyra" she whispered to herself, before arising and dashing off again, nimble and alert.

Down another corridor she dashed, before she heard the hurried footsteps and clash of armour of Gold Cloaks, Lannister knights, down the end of the path. She swivelled and crawled out of sight, further into the darkness of the strange corridor. The corridor led her to a tunnel, which Lyra entered, suddenly realising her claustrophobia. Despite her small frame, the walls of the tunnel gripped at her, hugging her little body tightly, and she could feel creatures crawling over her legs as she shimmied herself along. She saw a light approaching and held her breath, ensuring no one could hear - as she learnt, the tunnel echoes, and she feared the slightest breath would alert a Gold Cloak of her whereabouts.

When she was sure she was alone, she dropped out of the tunnel, and sprinted like a scared rabbit to shelter, ducking behind a large wooden wheel. Peering out, she could see the wagon that was in the process of being loaded for the Stark's return to Winterfell - the content of the wagon was now strewn across the ground, several trunks opened and belongings either being looted or disposed of. A Stark direwolf flag had been torn, and one of her wolf drawings shredded, too.

A flash of white got her attention - white followed by another flash, this time of brown. She dared not move, for now she was out of sight, and no man knew where she was, and no one, except those she trusted, knew of her being an Outsider. _Maybe that's why?_ She thought to herself. _Maybe they've figured out who I am?_

"The Stark lord is a traitor!" an angry voice interrupted her train of thought, and effectively concluded her thinking - her father was the cause, but a traitor? She could not understand.

The voices hurried past with the men, their swords drawn. Following the men at a slower pace was an old man, his white hair hanging like a curtain over his face - Maester Leland, the flash of white.

"Maester!" Lyra whispered, trying to stay quiet, but her excitement for finding a trustworthy companion was hard to control.

His eyes widened, and although no words came out, she knew he would have screamed her name if he could, but his breathe was ragged, and his eyes weepy.

Lyra peered both ways to check if she were safe to leave her hiding spot, before sprinting out and greeting her Maester. She was unsure what the plan was - Leland had ordered her to "run", and she had done, yet what he had failed to do was give a direction.

The tiny figure crept out from behind the wheel of the wagon, the blood of other men coating her, and she started toward the Maester, and he held his arms out, not acceptingly, but like a warning, as if he knew something was to come.

And he did know.

He knew of Lyra's destiny, and he knew that he was no longer destined to be in it, for as soon as his little student reached his outstretched arms, a spear lanced him through the chest.


	22. Forgive Me

King's Landing

As King's Landing lay under siege, her Maester lay dying - a victim of a godforsaken act Lyra could not figure out.

She had never seen an injury worse then a nosebleed closely, so all she could think of doing was holding his wound and telling him he would be okay, though she knew, despite her limited healing knowledge, it might have been a lie.

Her Maester coughed, "It has been a privilege being a part of your destiny, my dear child", in between splutters, and gurgling of blood, but Lyra just concentrated on keeping her head down and keeping her hands firmly on his chest - though even she could tell it wasn't rising nearly as frequently as it should, and his skin was turning whiter than it had ever been in the past.

He waved his hands frustratingly at her, and eventually she conceded and let go of his chest, instead placing her head on his shoulder, and whispered, "Hush, my friend, may you find peace with the Gods". And before his final breath, he spoke his final words, emphasising with a last burst of energy, " **Never forget: Your Soul is one thing, your heart is another** ".

And then he died. Not peacefully, not void of suffering, but surrounded by the one he loved so desperately. Lyra lifted her head and howled to the moon, a wail of desperate sadness, oblivious to the guards' attention being drawn. Off in the distance an Eagle became a butterfly, the symbol of freedom, and departed from the world, floating in the breeze - his Soul was free.

Quickly, she remembered that she were not free, she was hunted. She gave her Maester a kiss, held the necklace he'd gifted her tightly, and stumbled off, occasionally having to stop as the tears stung her eyes. At a set of gates she found herself, and to her surprise, her own Soul returned to her. Lev looked to be a small mouse, but Lyra identified him as a Pika - the Outsider symbol of using one's weakness as strength.

There was a gate, a gate marking her escape, that loomed several metres in the distance. She looked at the gate - wide open, but two guards standing sentry near it - and she noticed the rope that closed it. It hit her - she would cut the rope and slip through as it closed, causing a brief distraction, but long enough to get through and hide on the other side of the stone wall.

She drew a knife, and aimed slowly, before throwing. It missed the rope horribly and hit the stone wall behind. Lev did the closest thing to a cheeky scoff a small critter could manage, and Lyra madly told her Soul to "shut it!". She snapped back to reality and decided cutting the rope from such a distance was too ambitious, and she would have to get closer. Her decision was poor though, as now one of the guards was holding her knife and alerting the other of the attack.

Lyra sneaked from behind the wall she was presently behind, to another several metres ahead. She slipped back into the shadow and held her breath, praying to the Gods the guards had not seen her - thankfully, the Gods answered.

She drew another knife, and flung it at a larger target this time - a barrel filled with Gods know what, but she prayed her plan would work. Starting at a dribble, the water emerging from the barrel soon became a steady stream - and it worked, one guard rushed over, while the other remained by the gate, but deeply distracted. She seized her opportunity, and dashed out into the sunlight, drawing a sword out of the corpse of a dead soldier nearby. The guard saw and immediately screamed, "Seize her!", before his companion called back, "We need her alive!".

Her knees knocked together, but she rampaged like a bull toward her target, swinging the heavy sword and slicing the rope. In an instant, the iron gate bellowed as it slid toward the ground, and Lyra slid through, the guard reaching for her like a hungry hound at her heels. She dropped to the ground and slid through, but hearing a dreadful scream and crack behind her - she'd escaped but the guard had been less lucky. She felt guilt and sadness mix in her gut, and it rose to make her retch. The blood oozed out of his mouth and eyes and any other opening, and his finger twitched posthumously. Through the thick iron bars, another guard approached, roaring with anger, and she seized Wolf - her only remaining knife- a flung it. It hit the man in the neck, and he staggered backward, before dropping to the ground. She squeezed between the bars, closing her eyes as she pried Wolf out of the corpse's neck.

The little girl whimpered, "Eternally, I beg your forgiveness", and it took all her strength not to collapse and cry at the men she had just sent to their graves.

Perhaps she was a monster. She staggered toward a wall, disguised by shadow, and retched and heaved until bile spilled on the ground. "Forgive me" she sobbed, to no one in particular- perhaps the Gods, perhaps her dead Maester's Soul, perhaps to the dead men in the land beyond. Perhaps to herself.

"Forgive me".


	23. Unimaginable Hate

King's Landing

The fighting never ceased. The swords continued to clash, and men continued to scream and jeer.

Lyra didn't know how long she had huddled there - probably only minutes - but it felt like a lifetime. Bile, spilled from her guilt and grief, stuck on her dress, mingling with the blood of other men.

The guard's blood was still wet on Wolf, so she knew it hadn't been long. She closed her eyes and wiped the bloodied blade on a lonely tuft of grass, before fastening him back in his sheath. Telling herself softly, "Courage, Lyra", she peered around the corner. She had escaped through the gate, and she could see her way out, however, there were more obstacles blocking her way, and she still had to run through the streets that winded to and from the castle under siege.

Nimbly and assertively, she jumped from shadow to shadow, holding her breath each time someone came by, regardless of them being guard or civilian. She knew now, she could not trust anyone.

She saw a small figure, only a slight bit larger then her, up ahead. The figure, too, was huddled in the darkness. Lyra pressed herself against the wall harder, praying it wouldn't turn around. No sooner after she had pressed herself against the wall had the small figure risen and grown into a girl. A girl with a sword.

Arya.

On one hand Lyra wanted to scream to her sister, letting the relief that suddenly flooded her race out to meet the world. On the other, more timid, hand, she knew both were in danger. Arya rose and began to sneak away, and Lyra followed, moving quickly to catch up.

"Arya" she hissed. Arya spun around, Needle at the ready - waiting to skewer her. The tip of her blade was speckled with blood, and Lyra felt a sense of understanding. They were both now killers, but together they could be warriors. Together, perhaps, they could find Sansa and Father, Lyra would free Chief, who remained locked in the dungeons, and the five of them would journey together back to Winterfell.

As quickly as Arya had drawn her sword, she dropped it at the sight of her sister, and Lyra felt herself crushed against Arya's chest, embraced in the tightest hug the two had ever shared. "Thank the Gods...", was all Arya could stutter through tears, and Lyra found herself in tears, too.

Soon, the moment concluded, and the fight for survival and escape continued to be endured. Pointing at an abandoned street store up ahead, the two girls agreed to run at different times to avoid inconspicuousness. Arya first, as she had ordered, to ensure the path was clear for Lyra. A wave alerted Lyra over, and she uncoiled herself from her tiny ball and scampered onto the footpath, in pursuit of her sister.

Yet as Lyra had raced onto the path, Arya's "come over" wave ceased, and was replaced with a wary "go back" wave. Startled, Lyra found herself torn between to directions, her brain not deciding what was safest quick enough. She looked up to find a hefty man thundering toward her.

It was Ser Deacon, the bald man from King's Landing, the man who believed mercy most certainly did not exist. He seemed larger than he had before; perhaps because of his armour, or perhaps because he was now chasing after her, growing larger as he approached.

Arya rushed onto the path, out of her hiding spot, and grabbed Lyra's wrist with one hand, bearing Needle in the other. As Ser Deacon approached the pair, they split and raced into different directions. Arya sliced her sword through the air, only to miss and anger the beast of a man. Angrier now, he drew his sword and plunged it toward Arya, who thankfully jumped back before it could slice her. Ser Deacon swung the blade again, high above his head, and it came crashing down on the ground, forcing the beast to growl in rage.

With a plank of wood Lyra had found strewn on the ground, she picked it up and smashed it over the man's head. She expected a reaction of pain, but she failed to get it. He had naught but a scratch on his thick skull, and now turned to face Lyra. He grabbed her silks and pulled her close, grabbing her around the neck with one hand, trying to stop Arya whacking him with the other. Lyra bit the man's hand, and he let go and smacked her clear across the face with his heavy hand, sending her to the ground - blood spilling out between her lips, a white baby tooth lodged in the mud below.

She was in agony, and her Soul could tell. Soon she witnessed Lev glide through the alleyway, and target the colossal man.

 _'No, Lev, no!'_ her mind screamed, but it was much to late. Lev swooped in and revealed himself before Ser Deacon's vicious eyes. The man let go of Arya, who immediately sprinted out of range. Lyra's Soul pecked at the man, but he only glared at the girl, rage billowing like fire within him. His face twisted into unimaginable hate as he screamed, "Outsider! Vicious monster!"

Lev raced out of the way, and Lyra attempted to do the same- screaming "Run, Arya!" as she hastily tried to do so herself. Ser Deacon picked up a nailed plank of wood in his hand and swung the wood, slamming it down upon the tiny girl's frame.

First there was a crack. Then mind-numbing pain. Then darkness speckled her vision.

"Monster!" the man bellowed, and kicked her as she lay prone. "Monster!" he continued to spit, as a crowd amassed and did the same - spitting on the lifeless little body, jeering and calling her a monster and vermin and other foul atrocities. _No, Southerner's most certainly did not like Outsiders._

Through her blood, tears and blurred vision, she nodded ever so slightly, and incredibly weakly, at the figure she knew was her sister. The figure's eyes screamed all the regrets and sympathies her voice could not muster, before doing what Lyra prayed for: She fled.

Before the man could reach her, Lyra focused on the last feeling of warmth she knew she would feel, the last feeling of happiness - her sister had escaped.


	24. Guilty of Nothing

King's Landing

She was hauled through the streets by her hair.

As Ser Deacon dragged her through the amassing people, she was spat upon, shouted at and had rotten foods thrown at her little body. There were shouts of "Monster!" and "You were risen from Hell, Monster!", while some just backed away in fright.

She was lugged back into the very castle she was attempting to flee, and taken to see the new King and Cersei. She was thrown to the floor of the throne room, and kicked by Ser Deacon to move closer to the royals.

Lyra looked up, and through her tears and fright, she was relieved to see Sansa was there, worry in her eyes, and not injured like she'd feared. Also present was her father, who was chained, like her, his eyes holding more sorrow seeing his daughter manacled then she had ever seen in them. He had tried to protect her since her birth, and now, just five years later, she was to plead her innocence for a crime she didn't mean to commit.

"I've chained the monster!" Ser Deacon announced, looking around like he was a hero who had conquered a beast - which, in his mind, he did.

"So, the traitor's daughter is an Outsider?" Joffrey barked. He was sitting on the ugly throne like he was born on it, looking down on the commoners like rats foraging in the streets. He then spat at the ground in front of Lyra, and snapped, "Speak, Monster!"

Lyra looked up at her father, and he gently nodded at her. Lyra stifled her tears and whimpered, "I am being punished for a crime I did not commit, Your Grace."

"Don't feign innocence, Monster", her new King snarled. "You and your Kind will hatch plans and conspire to remove me from my Throne."

Only then did she realise how dire her situation was. They were not going to trial her fairly, they were going to trial her biasedly, and smile as she was led to the gallows. It was only then that she realised they wanted to execute her - and while she could wander for what, she could not question it. She wanted to be strong, she wanted to live, but in that moment nothing but extreme terror filled her little body. She, crumpled on the floor in agonising pain from Ser Deacon's attack, wailed desperately, wishing she would awaken to her mother singing her out of this nightmare.

She wept, "I promise you, I had no say over how I was born. I promise you, I will not hatch any plan, or conspire with others of my Kind. Return me to the North, and I shall never leave. If a war arises, I will choose no side. Should I leave I will face execution, or journey deep beyond the Wall in exile to the Land of Always Winter. I will marry no man, or mother no children. This I vow to you."

The King and his commoners guffawed at the girl's speech, before he hissed, "You are a traitor's daughter, a monster, too low for even peasants to spit upon. You and your kind were born for one thing: Execution"

"I acknowledge the crime, I do...I tell you, Your Grace, that I did not mean to commit it. I beg of you, have mercy", Lyra retorted, still in tears.

Behind her, the beast of a man chortled. He kicked her again, and Lyra could see her father struggle against the guards that restrained him. Ser Deacon grimaced, and said curtly, "There is no such thing as mercy, one day, you vicious little monster, you will learn. Mercy fails to exist."

Joffrey rose from his hideous chair this time, walking down the stairs to stand over the little girl. He spat on her again, and said menacingly, "I thank you for your performance, Monster, it was most entertaining... You shall not be executed." Her father and sister, she could see, sighed out in relief at the reprieve. Eddard had his eyes closed and was mouthing something, and Lyra knew it was a prayer. He prayed it whenever he thought Lyra was asleep during her early childhood: a prayer that she and her Soul would remain safe, protected and whole.

Lyra almost felt relieved. Quickly, though, she realised there was to be no way she would be getting out of this. She knew in that instant- her punishment would be worse than death.

"Ser Deacon", the King grinned sickeningly, "take her and do what you will, I permit it all".

Her father struggled again, shouting something that Lyra couldn't make out, and Ser Deacon hauled her to her bloodied feet by her hair, making her wince in pain. As she was dragged out of the room, she only saw flashes. Her father was crying - she had never seen her father cry. Though he was loving and compassionate, he was so stern in all he did. Sadness oozed out of his soul, Lyra could sense, but never did it form a tear to leave his eye. Not until now.

Ser Deacon had one long stride to Lyra's six little steps, and she found herself unable to keep up. On the ground she was dragged, still by her hair that ripped and shredded her scalp to a bloodied mess. The voice of the King continued to boom through the Throne room; his voice passing her sentence, a punishment worse than death:

"She is a Monster, a vicious beast, death is too good for her. Cage her again, Ser, and destroy her Soul to eradicate the beast she calls a Helai".


	25. Have Mercy

King's Landing  
The hours bled together slowly as she was imprisoned in the cold dungeon.

From each of the cell's four corners, an iron chain protruded. A chain on each arm, a chain on each of her scrawny legs, she was treated as any sane man would treat a monster - undignified, and to do nothing but ensure it does not escape.

The chains were long enough, however, that she could roll onto her side and change position every now and then. With the iron bar across one of her wrists, she kept herself occupied by carving the names of her family into the stone floor. As she wrote each name, more tears rolled down her bruised cheek. She was so alone, now- the world, it seemed, had forgotten her, and her heart rattled away - utterly alone - in the silence of the dungeon.

Silence, she would learn to enjoy. Occasionally, the silence would be interrupted by a loud bang on the barred cage of one wall, and Ser Deacon would spit through the bars and call her a "vicious little monster". What started out as an invitation for Lyra to plea for her freedom, became a lesson. She soon learned she ought to stay silent.

As the beatings endured, the man would yell, "there is no such thing as mercy" to her, and through her tears she would tell herself it were a lie - there was such thing as mercy.

Lev endured, though, and each night he would appear on the ledge of a small barred window.

"With me you will stay, my Soul", Lyra would tell the Helai, pleading it to be true. An Outsider could physically live without their Helai, but it would be merely a soulless shell. Contrary to this, the Helai could live without its Master, but it would be empty, too. Not free, but binded by the sadness of losing their anchor. It was a "cruel existence" Old Nan once said under her breath. Perhaps it was; it made Lyra wonder if all the critters in the world were not merely a wild animal, but a lost Soul.

A lost Soul without a Master - that is what Lyra feared would happen.

Lev spoke to her less now, to which Lyra was unsure if it was due to her beatings, her Soul leaving her, or maybe he just didn't have much to say. Lyra regretted ever telling the voice she now craved to shut up. It's one of those things, she thought, you only really miss something until it's gone, even the things that once annoyed you. Perhaps Sansa regretted complaining about her sisters. Lyra regretted ever giving her anything to ever complain about.

"I'm sorry", the young girl whimpered, as if her sister could hear her. She wanted to hug her siblings, she wanted to see her brothers, she wanted to have her mother brush her hair, or sing her a lullaby. Or have Arya teach her to dance, or Sansa to teach her to sow. She wanted everything she once had, but never appreciated. She wanted to see the sun, feel the breeze, or read or draw beneath a tree as Bran climbed high.

The sudden realisation hit her that she would die in this cell. Her family would never know, perhaps, left to merely speculate. Perhaps her mutilated little corpse would be returned to Winterfell, dragged behind a horse with a note attached to it describing the Monster they had slain.

What once would have saddened her, now brought Lyra an odd sense of relief. "I don't care anymore" she told herself sadly.

From the ledge of the window, Lev departed. Lyra called softly, not to alert Ser Deacon, but the creature would not return. She tried to scramble to the window, but the chains caught her and tugged at her frail limbs.

"Come back!" She called this time, her voice hoarse with sorrow.

She shrivelled into the tightest ball her chains would allow, and wished for Lev. She was losing the will to live, she knew. She told herself - she told Lev - that she would live and escape, but the window was still empty. Her words could never trick her Soul.

She remained shrivelled in her ball, sobbing to herself, until a small ray of sun appeared at the base of the window, alerting her that a new day had come - she had lived to see yet another morn.

But Lyra didn't care.

It was just another day to be beaten, to be separated further and further from her Soul, from her family, from the concept of love and happiness.

She heard the loud march of Ser Deacon, and shrivelled in a ball, squeezing her eyes tightly shut, silently pleading for mercy. The man didn't say anything for a while, instead she was thrown a stale clump of bread. It was only the size of her palm and was as dry as sand, but she hadn't eaten in two days.

"Eat up, Monster", the man snarled, "I have a performance for you to watch!"

He smiled menacingly, and a spark of pure evil flickered in his eye. She was then dragged, once more, like she was scraped off the street. More people spat at her, called her "Monster", but it no longer had much effect on the poor girl. She'd started to accept it - she was a monster. Perhaps the monster in the mirror was her, perhaps the monster she spent her childhood hiding from was nothing but her reflection.

Lyra was still a believer in mercy though, she was adamant. Every beating, every whipping, she would promise herself that it still existed - maybe not at King's Landing, but back home at Winterfell. There was such thing as mercy.

The two phrases were the only Ser Deacon would speak, and had become so prominent in Lyra's mind that if she were to try and distract herself with a song her mother used to sing, she had to purposely try and think of other words besides the two phrases.

Still, what remained consistent was her nightly lullaby, the beautiful words - names - she comforted herself with in the never ending darkness:

 _Eddard. Catelyn. Robb. Jon. Sansa. Arya. Bran. Rickon._

The names of the family she missed so desperately had become her lullaby when no one was there to sing her one.

She was disrupted from her thoughts and found herself hauled onto the steps by the Sept of Baelor. The King was there, as was the Queen and Small Council. Encircling the stairs was a sea of people, mainly commoners, farmers and poor people who scrounged by King's Landing, hoping for the slightest sum of tokens or food.

 _This is going to be a public shaming_ , Lyra thought. _They're going to spit upon me, mock me, humiliate me, and probably kill me_

Silently, she prepared for death. _Lev, if you must part my body today, be free, dear Soul._

Screams of "traitor" and "bastard" and other obscenities were barked toward the dungeon. Her father's head bobbed through the crowd as he was led my guards. People threw rocks at him, and called him more names than they called her.

It was then Lyra realised, through her father committed no crime, they were here for him. The "performance" that thrilled Ser Deacon was her father's trial. A confession of a crime he didn't commit.

And then, as dread accumulated in her gut and tightened her chest, she pleaded to the Gods who had ignored her through her torture: _please have mercy!_

She had never longed for mercy to exist more than in that moment.


	26. Hatred

King's Landing

 _Courage, Lyra. Have faith in mercy._

She told herself, and begged the Gods. Old and New.

 _Let my father live, let my father live, let my father live._

While Lyra was unsure exactly what her father had done, she knew of his innocence. He was a good man, guilty of only being too loyal. He was too good to be in King's Landing, maybe that was it. He had respected his wife and treated her with more compassion she could have fathomed from a man she was forced to marry, and had grown to love him fiercely . Together, the six children they had were his to love and protect.

She remembered how she would always crawl in bed between her mother and father at night, when she was too scared to remain in her chamber. She remembered how though he knew of Lyra and Arya having blades, he never took them of his daughters. She remembered how he respected his children, and loved them all deeply, even though two of his daughters acted more like sons. Tears pooled her eyes - tears she thought she could no longer cry - and they began to trickle down her cheek. In that moment, she wanted to run and hug her father and never let go. Feel his warmth, the sound of his voice, the gentle look in his eye. To have him smile at her, or watch the stars with her when the sky turned dark.

Her father was always strong, loyal, honourable - "a good sort" Maester Leland always said, and her old Maester knew everything. Yet now, he was feeble; so weak and pathetic. His eyes met Lyra's on occasion, and she could see tears of sorrow and regret wallowing in the deep grey. She knew he wished it was him who had been beaten, to be spat upon, kicked, and shamed.

Lyra stood up taller, to make her father assume she were alright, to make his guilt subside. The truth was obvious though. Her crystal eyes were more vibrant as they were both blanketed by thick bruising. Her lip was cut, her cheek and neck, running down her arms and legs were purple with bruise, and red with dried blood. Her hair was matted from being dragged, and sticky with blood from her scalp. Her little feet had hardened from being dragged, barefoot, through the town and countless corridors of King's Landing, bleeding from yet another wound inflicted on her by Ser Deacon.

They had been tricked, and they had been beaten. Their wolf pack being torn apart by the lions. The wolves had provoked the lions, unintentionally, and now they must cop the bite.

The new King - a hideous stag - stood over him, and spoke of how Sansa had pleaded for his life, and an opportunity to beg for a reprieve. It all seemed so fake, too merciful for the King - but perhaps he had his reasons to keep her father alive, reasons Lyra could not comprehend.

Her father had two options; face execution, being announced a traitor, but remain one with his titles and honour, or face banishment, wrongfully proclaimed as a man who was attempting an uprising against the King, stripped of all he stood for.

Neither Lyra wanted, but the latter became her new prayer. _Please, father, apologise for a crime for which you were wrongfully accused. Don't leave me. Honour can be reclaimed, a life cannot._

He could be sent to the Wall, a haven for murderers, rapers or outcasts like Jon, the only thing he was allowed to keep being his life. Lyra couldn't breathe, the trepidation of her father's next words made her feel ill.

Her father answered her plea, and reluctantly, Eddard admitted to a crime - the crime of supposedly wanting the Throne. Anyone who knew Ned well enough would know he never wanted the throne - all he wanted was Winterfell in the North, and his wife and children, who he loved dearly, to be safe. He hated the idea of coming to King's Landing, and had tried to leave. He had been tricked, and his goodness and loyalty taken advantage of.

Lyra wanted to scream, and thrash and steal Wolf, wherever it was, and get revenge. She wanted to punish the King for his lies. Yet, the silence of the King, and the voice of "mercy" by his Maester, hushed Lyra. Once more, she resumed her plea as it seemed to be working.

 _Let my father live, let my father live, let my father live._

The King smirked, " Treason shall never go unpunished!"

And then, just as she entered her final plea, the Gods failed her.

The Gods died. The Gods ceased to exist and a new spot filled within Lyra.

HATE.

"BRING ME HIS HEAD!" the King roared. Lyra screamed, nothing in particular, but she howled like a wolf would to a full moon. The fear flipped in her gut and climbed up to her chest, twisting like a dagger. She could feel her heart bleed, she could feel her world collapse.

"FATHER!" she screamed, she cried, she kicked, she wailed, "FATHER! PLEASE, NO, HAVE MERCY!"

On his knees, Eddard was thrown, as Ser Ilyn readied the execution sword.

She was held back by one guard as Ser Deacon grabbed her head, forcing her to watch.

"FATHER!" Lyra screamed, over and over again, until her throat was ripped raw and no more noise came out, except a hoarse whimper.

The sword swung.

A head rolled.

Her world collapsed.


	27. Hollow

King's Landing

Blood that once flowed through her father's heart now flowed across the timber, staining it red.

Lyra was dried of her tears, and her throat was ripped so raw from her dreadful screams that blood trickled down toward her stomach, making her churn.

She lost all her awareness, and felt herself become faint. Or maybe her heart was gone. Or her conscience. Maybe this was untrue. Maybe this was a ...maybe mercy didn't exist. She closed her eyes and dreamed of her soul, free and flying, doing everything she longed to do - escape.

The same voice - "there is no such thing as mercy" - barked behind her, and she felt herself forced to the ground. She knew then she was right about mercy. There was no mercy shown to the honourable Eddard Stark, and now there would be no mercy to the fatherless monster that she was. Not only was she a Monster, her father was deemed a traitor. A traitor's monster.

Strangely, she smelt it first. Then sense of touch returned to her, and she made herself hesitantly aware of where she had been pushed.

 _Blood. Father's blood._

The thick red substance slopped up her knees, her arms, some even splattered on her face. It bonded with her tears, and united they escaped down her cheeks.

"Clean it up, Monster!" the colossal man shrieked, his face twisted into unimaginable hate.

In the crowd she thought she heard Arya scream, yet when she looked the only faces were strange ones, laughing at her father's head as it was spat upon. Above the crowd, her father's head was held by the hair, blood dribbling out of the bodiless neck. His grey eyes stared at her forevermore, open and dull, but looked not in the way Lyra could ever be happy with.

Her insides churned and her reflex gagged as realisation hit her once more; she was wading in a pool of her father's blood. Shakily, and with eyes squeezed shut, she pressed a cloth into the pool to soak it up, to clean up the mess, the spillage. The blood was strangely warm, and as it oozed through her fingers it soaked the rag. In a bucket beside her, she ringed the blood out, and returned to the pool to soak up more. She kept her mind averted, yet cried and gagged her way through the cruel task.

She thought of her mother and father, her brothers and sisters, her direwolf and her old life. She thought of her chambers at Winterfell, the carving of a direwolf on the stone wall, the wooden toys strewn meticulously on the floor for her Septa to step on. She remembered Robb lifting her to reach the top of a shelf in the kitchen when they weren't supposed to be there but supper was long off, she remembered Bran teaching her to climb and calling out sweetly, "look at you go, little sister, one day we shall climb together!". She remembered the songs, limericks and funny stories she and Jon would create together as they bonded as outcasts. She remembered Rickon sticking his tongue out at her cheekily as it was her to time to retire in the evening but not his, but still remembered to send a raven on her fifth nameday, a day in which she was absent from home.

She remembered and her heart drowned in the sorrow. It rattled around inside her chest and Lyra knew she was becoming hollow.

Her father wasn't the only thing killed; her innocence, the Gods and mercy were also casualties in this brutal attack. She wept for her father, her own moral casualties and the new darkness in her heart.

"Monster" was spat at her, and "traitor" at her father's corpse.

 _Monster. Monster. Monster. Monster._

Her mind repeated, and her Soul, she felt, grew further apart.

 _Monster. Monster. Monster. Monster. I'm a monster._

She was so focused on her new, dark being, that she very nearly was oblivious to Ser Deacon rip her hair out again, and drag her back to her cage. Nearly.

The pain ripped through her body, but she refused to scream. _What is physical pain when your family has died? What is torture to the body, if the Soul is tormented further?_

She was returned to her cell, and she kissed the name of her father in which she had carved from the bar of her manacles on the stone floor. Then, she kissed the remainder of her family.

Her own name she had carved below her family. They were all together. She felt a twinge of sorrow, and whispered: "I am Lyra Stark of Winterfell. Daughter or Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn Stark. I am strong enough to withstand the storm, because I am the storm. I am my father's little wolf".

She curled up over the names of her family, gently stroking them with her chained little hand. She squeezed her eyes shut and whispered herself to sleep with her own lullaby.

"Eddard. Catelyn. Robb. Jon. Sansa. Arya. Bran. Rickon".


	28. A Wolf at Heart

King's Landing

"There is no such thing as mercy! There is no such thing as mercy! There is no such thing as mercy!"

The brainwashing endured, and the beatings increased. Lyra was bloodied more now, her body frail and her hair matted. Food was scarce, as was water, and her skin had lost its turgor and normal colour. Her skin was dry and barely stretched over the entirety of her frail little body.

The moon had risen a number of times since her father's death, and Lyra knew it had been over a month. Eddard's dry blood still blanketed her little body, but her own was more prominent.

Lyra screamed less now at the beatings. It still hurt, it always hurt, but she was developing a certain strength against it. Unfortunately, Ser Deacon was so sadistic, the lack of screams annoyed him greatly, and he needed to find nnew ways to break the little girl.

One night, as Lyra lay prone, weak and battered, Ser Deacon came in, ready to do one final number on her for the evening. This particular night, however, he didn't have his typical axe handle. No, now he held naught but a candle. Crouching down next to his victim, he poured the hot wax down the front of her body.

Lyra screamed, and yelped and thrashed, but there was nothing she could do to stop the villainous act. She wished that night, for the first time ever, that she had never been born. What was she born for? Torture. Eradication of her Soul that did nothing wrong.

The brainwashing worked, though. If you tell someone, particularly a child, something so many times, they will eventually believe it. And Lyra was beginning to believe the cruelty.

Vicious little monster. Vicious little monster. Vicious little monster.

It rattled around in her mind, and became engraved there - stuck like the memory of her father losing his head. "Vicious little monster" she would occasionally find herself whimpering during her torture, much to Ser Deacon's delight.

The memory of her father's kindness remained strong, though. When Lyra felt herself slip away, when she could no longer feel Lev close by, she would think of her father and the lessons he would teach. And, showing true strength, she would combat the merciless thoughts Ser Deacon tried to plant like a seed in her innocent mind with thoughts of her old life, her old morals.

There IS such thing as mercy. There IS such thing as mercy. There IS such thing as mercy.

It was in moments like that when Lyra knew she was still Lyra Stark of Winterfell. She would briefly become aware that she was not a monster, and was merely being brainwashed to think such thoughts. She was Lyra Stark of Winterfell. Daughter of Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn Stark. She was to be strong enough to withstand the storm, as her father often told her, because she was the storm. She was a wolf. The little wolf. Her father's wolf. And she had the strength of one.

Out of the corner of her eye a speck of white flickered. It was only small, and quite feeble, but present none the less. The only colour in the gloom of her dungeon.

She lifted her head, and uncoiled herself from her ball, untwisting herself from her chains. She tried to move her head to look at the speck, and was greeted with a lost feeling of warmth.

Her Soul had not abandoned her. Lev, an ashen moth, fluttered in the corner of the dungeon.

Lev, come to me.

The moth didn't come to his master, but Lyra knew he could recognise the tone. Her Soul had not left her. Her Soul was still alive, and had not yet escaped. Lyra thought back to that terrifying night when she saw the Monster in the mirror, and her Soul escaped briefly. She remembered how, despite her world being plunged into darkness, the one light of her dark world was Lev, a beautiful white butterfly, brightening the shadows of her reality. She remembered soaring on the breeze, she remembered the world slip away from her - all she cared about was following her Soul that night, all she cared about was being free.

Now, many moons later, she was wishing for her Soul to be caged with her. She had once wanted to be Lev, be free, but now she wanted Lev to be trapped with her.

Trapped, but together.

Perhaps it was selfish. Lev could be free, but it would be heart-wrenching for her. Or, perhaps, she was lonely. She was becoming detached and strong against the brutality inflicted on her, her heart was darkening and hollowing with each beating, each whipping, each brainwash, each burning. She believed she was a monster more each time Ser Deacon yelled it at her.

Mercy was dwindling, too. It flickered like candle in a storm, but it was still burning.

Yet, inside -perhaps deep down - she was still the same scared little girl, who wanted her father back. Who wanted to be back home. To play with her siblings. To feel Jon hug her and call her his "best girl", to be Ser Lyra with Kaelo and to teach Chief tricks. She was a wolf at heart - that she would never, ever, forget.

Maybe that's what Maester Leland had meant by his last words "your Soul is one thing, your heart is another". Lev was her Soul, for sure, maybe she was to remember that her heart was that of a wolf, that of a Stark. Maybe this was her destiny - to be beaten out of herself, and Maester Leland was trying to prepare her for inevitability.

Surely not. A destiny Maester Leland was "proud" to be a part of couldn't be that of a little girl being caged and beaten.

Lyra was now on her back, her arms and legs chained to four different corners. Sadness caught in her throat, and tears dribbled down the side of her face. A little moth feebly fluttered over and perched on her chest. Lev. Her beautiful companion, her friend, her Soul.

The moth rested on her chest until Lyra's sobs sniffled to nothing, and then he did what looked like a bow. Then he departed, flying through the small, barred window of the dark dungeon.

"Don't leave me, my Soul", Lyra Stark started to snivel.

"Never", her Soul whispered back.


	29. Scars of the Mind

_Stomp. Stomp. Stomp._

The marching tone of footsteps would clomp down the passageway in front of her cell, all through the day. The noise was frequent, like the slow dripping of condensation slipping down a stone wall of a hollow well, before pattering when meeting the water at the base.

When Lyra was a child, she used to cover her eyes in the belief that if she could see no one, then not one person could see her. Though she had outgrown this, or, rather, had been beaten out the childishness, the same method applied for her each time the stomping would march closer.

She would close her eyes, hold her breath, and pray no one could see her.

What began as a fear of the pain Ser Deacon would inflict upon her tiny body, had shifted in the past weeks and became an intense fear of the toll it was taking on her mind. Lyra had learnt an important lesson in that damp cell – the body can heal, you can cover up scars and bruising with linen and lace, but the mind never heals. Damage to the mind is like a wound that fails to heal. You can cover up the scars, but they are still there.

Her family's faces swam up to meet her each night, and she bathed in the memories they provided for her. Without them, she would be lost, and her Soul, no doubt, would have flown. The memories hurt her now, as she was constantly reminded of what she had, but lost.

 _Stomp. Stomp. Stomp._

The noises resumed, they never stopped.

 _Stomp. Stomp. Stomp._

The voices held a firm place in her scarred mind, too.

 _Vicious little monster. Vicious little monster. Vicious little monster._

 _There is no such thing as mercy. There is no such thing as mercy._

In her head, all day, every day.

 _Vicious little monster_ , she would think to herself, _vicious little monster._

Lev, often in the corner of her cell, would droop and die just a little bit more. He was waiting – waiting for Lyra to release him, waiting for Lyra to let go of her Soul, so he could be free. Yet the strength of the wolf was the strength of its mind, and Lyra had more strength than she had ever considered. Her body was weak, her mind was strong.

 _Stomp. Stomp. Stomp_

The steps finally reached her, and stopped by her battered body, lying prone on the stone floor, manacled, bruised and pathetic.

"Vicious little monster!" Ser Deacon would begin the cruel ritual by announcing, followed simply by "there is no such thing as mercy!"

Then he would draw his axe handle, heave it over his head and slam it down on her body. Harder and harder each time, she could feel the bruising forming. The pain ripped through her body, and all Lyra could concentrate on was "there IS such thing as mercy, there IS such thing as mercy!"

The axe slammed down again, this time hitting her back as she shriveled into a ball and yelped, "There IS such thing as mercy!"

Ser Deacon continued, beating his contender harder each time the axe would fall, combating each brave merciful plea with his same repeated phrase – "there is no such thing as mercy!"

He beat her until it rattled around in her mind, and formed another scar. Just another scar that would never be healed; the scar of being beaten for no reason other than how you were born.

It was only then, as the final blow fell to her crippled body, that she realized what he was doing, whether or not he knew he was doing it.

Intentionally or unintentionally, he wasn't beating her because she was a "vicious little monster", he was beating her into one. She was becoming a monster. It scratched and clawed its way into her mind, and tried to evict Lev with a growl. Lev lay prone in the corner, and his master did the same.

When Lyra was barely conscious, barely lucid, Ser Deacon knelt by her side, pulling out Wolf – her blade.

He held Wolf close to her face, and Lyra was too battered to tell herself Jon's word "Courage, Lyra". Her eyes shut as Ser Deacon gripped a clump of her hair in his fist, Wolf in the other. As he began to cut he snarled, "Now are a monster, and now you will look like one".

The hair fell down her back, her cheeks, her bruised complexion, and landed in a brown heap near where her head lay. Her scalp was bleeding, and her mattered hair no longer fell straight down her back. Some was cut to her scalp, some remained the length of her shoulders, some random clumps rested halfway between the lengths.

Either way, she didn't care anymore. She relented.

She was monster.


	30. Fleeting Moments

King's Landing

Dreams were infrequent for Lyra. She only had nightmares.

This night however, nearing what must have been two months since her father's death, her mind allowed her a gentle release. It was less of a dream, rather a memory, but Lyra welcomed it, regardless, thankful it wasn't a nightmare. The dreams gave her wings to fly, to escape the nightmare of her reality even if just momentarily. She flew on her dreams like a bird - like Lev - back to where she was loved.

And when she wasn't having a nightmare, she imagined them, she hoped to dream of them. All those who were once at Winterfell, all those who had left her. In the back of her mind the lullaby repeated, the lullaby of her family, and she felt, in those fleeting moments, like she never left home. That was all the dreams and memories were though; fleeting.

Or maybe she wasn't dreaming, maybe she was dying.

She hadn't had water in over two days, and she was desperate for even the slightest of drops, yet, ironically, the lack of water had left her so weak she would be unable to reach for it, even if it was within arms reach. There was a tray of food and a pitcher of water just outside the dungeon - Lyra could see - but it was merely there to tempt Lyra as she could not reach it, and to reflect Ser Deacon's cruelty and hatred of her. He had stopped beating her in the last couple of days. Her lack of screaming now, as she was so used to the pain, angered him majorly, and his new hobby was watching her die of thirst.

Her lips were cracked, her skin lost of any turgor it once had, and her muscles cramped and would occasionally spasm, all from the effects of her severe dehydration. Her blue eyes, which once shone effervescently, were so sunken and weak the odd fly would dance around her face and touch her eyes and she would not even blink.

The shackles on her wrists and ankles were so heavy on her thin wrists that they weighed her down like an anchor. If she had any strength left, she would most likely be able to squeeze her wrists out of the manacles, as they were now so thin.

With her one relatively strong finger, she stroked the carved names of her family each night on the stone floor, she stroked the name of her direwolf who was imprisoned like her, the name of Kaelo, her Maester, even some maids, guards, Septa's and Septon's in a desperate bid to force the monster out of her mind, and to keep Lev anchored to the world.

A whistling disrupted her memories. In a ball she shrivelled, the same fear creeping back into her, yet she knew that Ser Deacon was not the kind to whistle a tune. In fact, the tune reminded her of one she had heard at Winterfell. It wasn't until after the King Robert's arrival at her home, nearly one year ago, that she heard the tune for the first time.

The whistled tune turned to another sound, another sound in which she had all but forgotten, but deep down remembered. She heard a gasp - a gasp of shock, and devastation. The voice was that of a man, a man she once knew, a man she once was friends with. His presence would once offer her comfort, maybe even just a month ago, but now it frightened her. She didn't like people out of sight, approaching from behind. She simply could not trust anyone- that had died with her father.

She heard the voice whisper in a disturbed tone, "Lyra", and her heart jumped up into her throat. She had not heard that name in many months; it was no longer her name, it was just a word. Yet, she recognised it and remembered that she was once called such a word- before she was deemed "monster" by all.

It was one of the first friends she'd ever made, outside of her family and her vivid imagination. It was the imp, Tyrion Lannister. The thought of the lion of his sigil made her skin crawl, but deep down there were memories of him clawing to the surface, clawing to be let out, pleading to be trusted. She remembered he was a good man. A good man from a bad family.

Almost as quickly as he came and stopped by her motionless little body, he departed again. Maybe he had been traumatised seeing the battered remains of the cheerful and sweet little girl he had met at Winterfell, perhaps he was scared the beast who harmed her would return for him, perhaps he wanted to get help. Perhaps.

It took all her concentration to open her eyes, and when she did, her head was cradled by the same hands who once shook hers upon their meeting in Winterfell. Another man was there, which made her want to scream and escape, but she was unable to. The man was small and timid, and approached her with uncertainty, before squatting by her side holding a pitcher of water. Tyrion held her head gently, and the timid man poured some water in her mouth, allowed her to swallow, then proceeded to give her more water.

It tasted so good. She didn't even have to swallow, it just slipped down her throat and soothed her pain and discomfort. The dryness of her mouth became saturated with the cool water, and the cold of her heart was warmed for the gentle touch of the imp and the man he named "Pod".

Tyrion said a soft apology to her, and some more incomprehensible words, before placing her head back of the ground and scurrying off, Pod in tow, before Ser Deacon could catch them.

While sadness filled her once more as she was left on her own, she was able to conquer the monster that had clawed into her mind, even if just briefly. She was reminded of the good of some people, and reminded herself on an important lessen:

There _was_ such thing as mercy.


	31. Salvation of the Soul

King's Landing

The hands of fate were eager to grab Lyra, and eradicate her Soul.

While she was scarred and battered in every way possible, beaten down to a pulp with no strength to rise, she never failed to remind herself of the existence of mercy. It had been two days since Tyrion and Pod's merciful visit, and the monster was beginning to return to inside the murky depths of her thoughts.

Isolation and torture would have agonizing effects on any individual, yet the blows came harder to such a young child.

Her Soul, as he had been for a number of weeks, was absent. Occasionally he would flutter on the edge of the small window high above her, but that was only brief and he would fly free for another while before his return. His visits were likely saying "I am still here, Lyra", and for that, the young Outsider was grateful.

Her name, once more, had become just a word. Lyra was no more. The girl was buried beneath the ruble the destruction of her father's death caused. With her shackles, she crossed out her name on the stone floor in a fit of rage and odd strength. A fire sparked within her causing her to spit at her carved name. She scolded "vicious little monster" at the word, and spat at it once more. _I am a monster. I am a monster. I am a monster._

She was so cold, inside and outside. She had grown up in Winterfell, known across Westeros for its cold climate, yet she never felt as cold as she did now. At least at Winterfell, her heart was warm with love, hope and dreams of adventure. Now she was just empty and cold, like an abandoned holdfast, laying claim to the land below, but void of any lord ruling it.

Her little body shivered at the chill of the ground, but a peculiar warmth surrounded her. She lifted herself up slightly to see a ray of light trying to push through the small window. Beneath shaking arms, the girl rose on her hands and stretched her back, pointing her face to the light. Her arms tremored, but she ignored it and found strength within her – she wanted to see the sun shine bright, and feel the comfort of its warmth. A slight breeze skimmed her shaved and bloodied patches on her scalp, and blew through her uneven remaining brown hairs. She had forgotten the warmth of the sun, and the feeling of breeze blowing through her hair, or gently smacking her face.

A moth fluttered to the window, and stared at the girl for a moment. Looking into the light, and admiring her Soul, her cracked lips eased slowly into a slight smile. Not a large or particularly cheery smile, but a smile nonetheless.

In one smooth flap of its wings, the moth transformed into a dove – the Outsider symbol of hope, peace and salvation – and sailed down to the ground in front of its master. There, he bowed his head in a mark of respect, and whispered to her mind "You are strong, Lyra. As is your Soul."

Lev rested on the stone floor by the girl, and Lyra eased her weak arms down and placed her head back on ground. The floor was no longer as cold as it once was, and the sunlight, though gradually fading, still provided her with comfort.

The Outsider and the Helai faced one another, and stared into each others eyes through the night. Lyra was scared if she blinked he would vanish, and none of this would be real.

She conceded and accepted that though death was inevitable, being alone in death was not. She would not be an empty shell; her Soul would not leave her. She looked at the beautiful bird on the floor beside her, and said, "Together, Lev. You are my Soul, I am your Master".

 _Together,_ Lev echoed back in her mind.


	32. Unchained

King's Landing

The islands of mercy were few and far between these days. Occasionally she could mount an island, rest and recuperate, before slipping back into the murky waters of mercilessness, rage and delusion.

Through the night, she would silently howl to the moon through the small window above her, and somewhere, she dreamed, her pack was taking up the sorrowful yowl. The Stark's would always endure, despite the harshness of the storm. The pack would always survive. It brought her peace to know they were connected by the moon, and far out there, the stars that littered the sky, she was determined, was her father smiling down.

"You are my little wolf", her father's memory comforted you. Her mind was possessed by a demon crueller and darker than any she'd ever imagined, the monster grew stronger, but so did her father's memory. Where there was memory, there was love and light. And where the combination of those two were, so was Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell, the bravest and most honourable man she had ever known.

His body may have died, but he did not. He merely left the game, but his flame still burned, and Lyra knew it was up to her to carry his candle. She was going to be like him. She was going to be stern and strong, yet kind and merciful. She was going to wear tall boots like her father did, and pants and vests. She was going to be big like him. Generations would know of his name, her children would listen to stories of him. Eddard was alive. Her father was her God, now that hers had failed her. They had slinked out of existence, but where they once burned bright, her father now stood.

Littered to all horizons, her family was scattered. Ser Deacon had come in and bragged about Robb going to war to save their father, but consequently failing. The cruel man pretended her oldest brother was dead, that Robb had been slaughtered, his body butchered, but Lyra knew he was alive. So was her mother and brother and sisters. Lev knew, and in her Soul she knew only her father was flying free.

Robb was going to rescue her, and if not, Lyra would find a way to rescue him. They would pick up the pieces of their broken lives and return to Winterfell, or the Land of Souls beyond the Wall.

Still, she howled. She knew her direwolf could hear, he was closer than Lyra had considered. His whimpering would occasionally break through her ambiguous thoughts, and she would emerge and want so desperately to howl back.

She was in yet an other state of delusion, a place she ventured to frequently. When she was unable to haul herself onto an island of mercy, an island of salvation, she would drown in the sea surrounding it. And drowning is all she felt like she did these days.

She splashed in a mad frenzy, screaming out, but no one would hear. The screams were in her mind, as was her drowning, and only her Soul could hear. But even he was unable to rescue her. She was falling deeper and deep into the vast sea, even the light of her father shone was hard to see. A voice called for her in the distance, but she couldn't hear. She clawed for the surface of the water, but waves continued to topple her, throwing her little body around. The inaudible voice called for her again. And again. It never stopped. Finally, in one thrust to the surface, a firm hand grabbed her and shook her.

The hand shook her body hard, and she felt her body rattle against the floor. She was not drowning - that was all in her mind - she was still in the same cell.

"Monster", the voice said. The words were the same, but the voice was different. It was not the dark tone, rough and harsh like she was used to hearing from Ser Deacon. It was the voice of a younger person. Not a young child, but a child who was not yet a man grown.

"You are a monster" the strange voice spoke again. Lyra heard the crash of a piece of wood being thumped against the iron bars of her cage. The sound following was that of footprints, and the cold fingerprints running across the back of her neck. Lyra flinched at the touch, and closed her eyes wishing to disappear.

The strange person walked around in front of Lyra's face, stepping over her chains with tall black boots. He crouched down by his victims side and pried her eyes open with his cold hands. Lyra tried her best to squeeze her eyes shut, but the boy pried them open. Just as she began to focus on the boy's face, he hawked up some spit and shot it into her eyes. He grabbed her hair and when her head was pulled back, he spat on her again, repeating "monster" over and over again.

"There is no such thing as mercy", a firmer voice spoke behind her, and Lyra recognised it as Ser Deacon. There were two of him. She was better off dead.

Unsure where her Soul had flown too, she whispered in her mind to Lev, "If the kill us tonight, I shall be ready to die. I will greet death as I would a friend."

Ser Deacon interrupted her thoughts by doing the oddest thing he had done in months: He unchained her. And just as Lyra looked up at him, she saw him give the toad of a boy an affectionate shoulder squeeze. Whether he was Ser Deacon's son, or minion, they were both awful. She didn't care for any of them.

"Grab her, boy. I give you the honours", Ser Deacon said, somewhat softer than he usually spoke.

The boy smirked and grabbed her by the collar of her tattered dress, but it wasn't before long when his mentor snapped and snapped, "How I told you, boy!"

The boy let go of Lyra's collar and grabbed her hair, before pulling her to her feet. She had not stood in well over a month, and her legs were exceedingly weak. She faltered and stumbled to the hard ground with a thump. The boy just smirked at her and laughed, before dragging her along the ground.

She hit every wall and every rock, and felt small pebbles and sticks lodge into her back as it ripped through her dress and planted into her skin.

She was taken down flights of stairs to a much smaller, darker room with no window. The boy launched her into the dungeon, but she was not binded by any chains. Ser Deacon gave the boy another affectionate squeeze of her shoulder and offered him an encouraging nod, before storming out of the room and slamming the door behind him.

"No one will hear you scream down here, you little bitch" the boy snapped, spitting in her eyes as he spoke, "your screams were keeping everyone awake. Even precious Sansa."

The sound of her sister's name sparked a flame that she thought was gone. Sansa. Oh how she missed her sister.

"No one will show you mercy down here. No one will find you", the interrupted her thoughts of her sister. They knew of mercy; they were aware of the mercy shown to her by Tyrion and Pod a while ago.

The boy squatted down next to her and grabbed her neck, forcing her to look him in the eyes. He had a fat, sweaty face, murky blue eyes and ears that were too big for his head. His hair was lang and oily, dripping down his face. His teeth were crooked and yellow, and his breath smelled of smoke. He was about the age of Robb and Jon, she determined. He was hideous and cruel. She hated him. Hatred had never sparked so soon inside her - not since the hellish months that had passed her by.

The boy removed his belt and wrapped one end around his hand, readying the other to whip Lyra's tiny body. The belt struck her and the girl winced in pain, but she was able to distract herself. His blows were not as hard as Ser Deacon's, for which she was thankful. Her mind wandered to the door behind him..

A door.

Not a cage, a room with a door.

A door. No chains. And, as the boy had stupidly informed Lyra, _no one_ around to hear her scream.

No one around...to see her escape.


	33. Memories of the Past

King's Landing

Lyra began to realise she was going to have to change considerably if she were to escape King's Landing. While she had once thought she could outsmart the guards, Ser Deacon, the cruel boy, and the King and royals, she realised it would not happen.

She would have to embrace violence. What was violence to Lyra now? She had been in her nightmares for so long she was beginning to become one with the darkness. Pain inflicted on her didn't have nearly the same effect it once did, blood no longer sickened her following her swim in her father's, and mercy was a rope she was desperately trying to cling to, but even now, the rope weakened under the weight of her and threatened to snap.

Lyra Stark of Winterfell, the little wolf, still lurked inside, just very deep down. Yet it seemed she was still quite close to the surface, and though she was treading in murky waters, there was still hope for her. Mercy still existed...deeply down, but still present.

Thoughts of her family kept her merciful and hopeful, yet it had been months since she had seen their faces, and memories and dreams were all she could grasp onto.

Yes, Lyra had changed, and she would continue to change. If she didn't change, she would die. She realised that Ser Deacon wanted her to change - to accept she was a monster and unworthy of love or respect - but she recognised that she could use it against him. She could become the monster he feared.

The problem was, she didn't entirely want to become a monster, the innocent little Lyra was still inside her, and she wanted nothing more than to go home and be with her family. She wanted to live, but she wanted to live as Lyra, the girl she once was.

Tears filled her eyes, and she moved locations in her room. Curling up in a little ball, she willed this, once more, to merely be in a nightmare. _Please sing to me, Mother, I'm scared,_ she begged the mental image of her sweet mother to sing a gentle song to her. But her mother was silent. She slipped in between being a monster and being a scared child.

With her left hand, she stroked her head, trying to avoid the many sores and bloody patches that her torture had left her. She gently stroked some loose hairs, and hummed to herself comfortingly. _Shh, Lyra, hush._

She'd pushed her mother's loving embrace to the back of her mind in the past year. Her father used to take up that spot, occasionally even Septa Mordane would give her an affectionate squeeze of her shoulder. Thoughts of her mother were too raw, and hurt her more than make her happy. She was not in the place to reminisce over what she had and how lucky she was, she was only able to grieve what she had lost.

As tears pooled in her eyes, she continued to stroke her hair gently. " _Shh, Lyra, don't be afraid, my love",_ she imagined her mother whispering.

Her mother used to kiss all around her face - her forehead, her cheeks, chin, ears and eyes - before finally planting a kiss on her nose. "I love you, sweet one", she would whisper in her youngest daughter's ear.

Lyra remembered and tears filled her eyes. "I love you, too, Mother..." she whispered to the empty darkness.

 _Love_ , Lyra thought...what a strange concept it was becoming.

Heels down the wooden floor outside her isolated room interrupted her thinking. The door shot open in a flash, startling her, and Lyra left up and backed away. Her eyes wide and teary in fright, she backed against the dusty wall. Her eyes focused and fell on a young woman with auburn hair .

Sansa.

Her sister. Oh, Sansa, how she had grown. She had a sadness in her that had never existed, she had a light bruise on her cheek, but it was her eyes that concerned Lyra. They were so desperately sad, and murky with dejection. Upon seeing her little sister in such a state, Sansa's eyes instantly filled with tears.

"Lyra..." she gasped and began to splutter. Sansa's eyes looked all over her little body; from her cut hair to her mangled toes, she sobbed at each bruise and retched at the blood that covered her. Lyra thought she had forgotten how to cry properly, but she proved herself wrong. Her split lip quivered and tears pooled in her eyes and overflowed down her cheeks. She suddenly became aware how hideous she was - how she now looked so much like a monster.

Sansa hesitantly stepped toward Lyra, like she was a stranger to her, and slowly crouched by her side. Lyra continued to sob, and Sansa whispered, "Don't worry, Lyra... in my heart you are beautiful".

She loved her sister desperately, a love she never knew she had for her. All the annoyances of growing up with Sansa in Winterfell were replaced by her sweetness. Sansa never wanted her to be a knight, she got angry when Lyra chased Arya around, but it was only now that Lyra considered it was because her older sister had wanted to be the one Lyra adored - not her rebellious sister, and not their brothers.

Lyra heaved herself off the wall she was backed against, and launched herself into her sister's arms. Sansa wrapped her arms tightly around Lyra, and cried into her shoulder. Lyra had forgotten what it felt like to be hugged, to be loved. The little girl buried herself into Sansa's neck, and she was determined never to let go.

"Lyra", Sansa finally spoke, "they...they want you."

Lyra looked at Sansa in shook, before the older sister continued, "They sent me to come and get you for supper."

Supper. Food. Surely not, it was clearly a trick. Or the food would be poisoned.

Lyra backed away again and resumed her position on the floor, her head facing away from Sansa, so she wouldn't see the fear in her eyes.

"Please, Lyra, you will only make it worse."

"I'm not hungry", Lyra lied through tears. She couldn't help but wonder why her sister was sent to get her, not Ser Deacon, or the ugly, cruel boy, or someone equally dreadful. Not the monsters older sister. Lyra felt oddly betrayed, like she was being played. That is all she was now, a player in somebody else's game.

"Please, Lyra", Sansa pleaded again. Lyra could hear the sadness and fear in her voice.

"I...I am scared", Lyra whimpered.

Sansa placed a loving hand on her back, making Lyra flinch, and said, "Don't worry, I will be here."

Sansa helped Lyra stand on her weak legs and led her out of the room, the key to the room in her hand. Lyra was contemplating running off, Sansa would never capture Lyra and let her escape. Yet, she knew it would plunge her sister in a world that was much darker than the once she was already in.

Sansa held Lyra's hand, and the little Outsider simply could not escape. For now, she felt something that she thought she'd never feel again.

Loved.


	34. A Lion's Feast

King's Landing

Sansa led Lyra up the many flights of stairs and through the corridors that secluded her room from the rest of the castle. A guard met Sansa and the prisoner somewhere along the way, probably ensuring she was not going to orchestrate an escape.

Discretely, Lyra peered around noting nooks and crannies she could hide in, empty rooms and small passageways that were dimly lit. And finally, she concerned herself to where Chief's cell was, where her own weapon, Wolf, was, and where Kaelo had fled...or maybe during the siege of King's Landing he had been ki-...no, Lyra did not want to think about that. She disregarded the thought before she had the time to finish it.

Lyra gripped Sansa's hand tightly, not ever wanting to let go. She wanted to hold her close, to feel what a hug felt like again. As Lyra clasped her older sister's hand, Sansa squeezed it back. They were united by one common factor: fear. It ran through their minds and hearts.

They reached a large door, and the guard that was escorting them opened it for them, pushing the girls inside. Lyra realised what was going on.

The lions were ready to feast.

The "supper" Sansa had innocently referred to was not for Lyra, it was for them. The lions of Lannister were going to devour her.

There was a large trestle table in the centre of the room, enveloped by glorious foods. There was suckling pig, a pie and vegetables deliciously soaked in butter - it smelled truly heavenly. In a fire pit in the corner of the chamber, was a second pig being roasted. Lyra warned herself that she would not be able to eat this; it was there to torture her further, like the pitcher of water in the corner of her previous cell. It was there, yes, but out of reach and inaccessible.

Cersei was seated at the table, ripping meat from the bone with her lion's teeth, glaring down on the Imp, Tyrion, hatred steaming from her. Yet, when the King's mother noticed the sudden sadness in Tyrion's eyes, she looked over to see. Lyra. She looked truly awful.

Under her dress, her ribs stuck out, threatening to break through her weak skin. Her skin had become so brittle it barely stretched over her bony body without tearing. She could barely stand on her own two feet, and she had to brace Sansa for support. The suckling pig on the table looked more alive than she did.

Tyrion's mouth twisted in rage at the treatment of the girl, but he couldn't bring himself to look at her battered body, so he kept his eyes averted. Joffrey gawped at her, before giggling and giving Ser Deacon a celebratory round of applause.

And then there was the beast who had beaten her. Ser Deacon. He grinned at the broken body of Lyra Stark like he had created a masterpiece. Beside the beastly man was the cruel boy, who spat at the ground, undoubtedly meant for Lyra.

"Your whore of a Mother has captured my brother, you savage little cretin", Cersei finally spoke, losing the shock she once had. Her voice echoes off the stone walls, and Lyra shrunk backward into the blackness of the shadow surrounding her. The woman glowered at Lyra with all the hate the Seven Hells could provide. _What did we do?_ Lyra's Soul whispered, frightened, to which Lyra had no response. What did she do? She had found herself guilty of a crime she did not mean to commit.

"Shut it!" the King snapped at his mother, "We are not here to discuss my Uncle. The monster is already guilty of the most heinous crime: being born an Outsider."

" _She_ is a monster?" Tyrion scoffed, standing up and pointing at the little girl. "Anyone who beats a child the way you have this girl is more of a monster than anyone."

"I am punishing her!" Joffrey snapped, signalling for guards to come and escort the man out.

"Punishing her for what? Being born?! This is not punishment, it is hatred of a Kind that is not of your own!" Tyrion cried, trying to avoid the guards. He made his way toward Lyra, but the guards reached him first, hauling him out the chamber. The dwarf continued to cry and yell for mercy, but at the sound of that word, Lyra's heart sank.

There was no such thing as mercy. There would come a time where Lyra would have to accept it, and embrace the darkness. She was to be feasted on by the lions, and for what? How she was born? It was a cruel existence.

Joffrey extended his arm and signalled for the sisters to approach.

Sansa began to lead Lyra down the steps toward the awaiting crowd of haters. Lyra was convinced she had never been more terrified, but then again, she had only known fear the last months of her life. Lyra gripped Sansa's shoulder and limped down the stairs of her weak legs. She was trembling so hard now she thought she might fall over, and willed herself not to burst into tears.

Sansa led Lyra over to a chair, and sat next to her, continuing to hold her hand.

There was a moment of painful silence before Ser Deacon growled behind her, "Now what are we going to do with you..."

This was it. The one final push. The end. She was going to die. She squeezed Sansa's hands tightly, and allowed the tears to come full force. She thought she was ready to die, but she wasn't, she was so incredibly scared. How was this part of her destiny? How did Maester Leland fail to mention this?

Her mind went back and forth as she heard Ser Deacon rattle around behind her, fetching something. Sansa looked horrified, tears filled her eyes and she shrieked, "No, no no, please, Your Grace, make him stop, no!" Cersei even looked a little uneasy.

Lyra had no courage. She was so cowardly. She simply could not turn around.

She didn't need to, the pain reached her soon enough.

It spread over her skin like she was dancing barefoot on the sun, like wildfire in her veins. It burned. It stung. It smelled. Her smell of her burning flesh filled the room and Cersei rose and left, leaving Sansa to vomit by her side, all the while begging and pleading for mercy.

The pain stopped for a minute, and Lyra could here Ser Deacon return to the fire pit. He had a metal rod in his hand, and he was holding it over the flame until it turned red. Yet, before the man could return, pain stuck her again. It was the boy. He held the hot iron against her skin and spat in her face.

"There is no such thing as mercy!" the boy screamed, touching the flaming rod to another patch of skin, "Vicious little monster!"

"There is such thing as mercy! There is such thing as mercy! There is such thing as mercy!" Lyra screamed, but it only made it worse. The blows were closer together, and the burns hurt her more and more.

Sansa was collapsed by her side in desperate prayer, and Tyrion was outside thumping on the door, swearing at the abuse going on indoors. In the distance she thought she heard Chief howl. He was undoubtedly awakened by his master's pitiful screams and shrieks.

The pain was unbearable; it was beyond anything she could ever imagine. Lyra screamed until blood trickled down to her stomach from the rawness of her throat.

She closed her eyes and called for Lev. In her mind he appeared, and gave her a gentle smile. And then, toward the open window of her mind, he soared to the clouds.

He flew away.


	35. Lev

_"Be free! Be free! Be free!" Lev chirped to himself as he danced on the wind, soaring farther and farther away from his cage. He was to leave behind the screams of his master, but instead hold her firmly in his feathered body._

 _The little wolf howled into the darkness of the night, and it shattered Lev. He tried to remind himself that he were Lyra, in a way. He was her innermost being, and he wanted so desperately to keep his master safe._

 _He couldn't do it, though. He couldn't leave the body of the girl he loved so desperately. He perched on a tree and sung to Lyra through his mind, "Hush, sweet one, hush", but he couldn't reach her. She had closed her mind._

 _Outside the castle, he stood sentry. Some people down below stopped and stared at the window the dreadful shriek emanated from, some covered their ears, while others hurried passed._

 _A man sat solitarily on a rock, sharpening his sword with a whetstone. Lev glided to the lower branch and saw a twist of rage on his face, and his knuckles whitened from gripping his sword so hard. He recognised the man from the many nights he would fly from Lyra's cell. The man never moved from his spot - he never left, even when the suspicious guards came to usher him away._

 _Lev recognised the man from the many nights, but also from the many stories Lyra used to share. Before the siege of King's Landing, before Lev and Lyra really united as one, he would feel a beam of happiness infiltrate his body, and he knew Lyra was happy. The happiness was so warm, and the happiness came from this very man. "Ser Lyra", he used to call her, to which his master would reply, "Ser Kaelo" with all the love Lev knew she had to offer._

 _Lyra envisioned them fighting side by side one day, and Kaelo remembered. He, like Lev, would never leave. He stood sentry, thinking how he could help Lyra escape, thinking of how anyone could beat a child as precious as Lyra._

 _To the man, Lyra was just an ordinary girl, and Lev was just an ordinary owl._

 _The man had noticed the creature over the months, and would always offer a few scraps of bread for him. Lev would scoop the bread in his beak and swoop in to Lyra's dungeon to offer it to her. His girl was often so delusional, she would fail to stir or recognise him, but he would stand by her and ensure she swallowed. With her, her Soul would always remain. On nights of beatings, and brief moments of clarity, she would cry to the darkness, "Don't leave me, my Soul", to which Lev would comfort her mind with the only lullaby he knew - "Never"._

 _And he never did. By the castle, perched on a branch of a weeping willow, he would wait. And wait. And wait. The nights grew darker and colder, but Lev would always remain. "Never" he would whisper to his girl until she fell off to sleep, and then, and only then, would he close his own eyes too._

 _But he would never leave her, even when she thought he had. Even when he was out of sight and Lyra's heart felt so achy and heavy. He still would never leave._

 _With her, he would remain._


	36. The Stark Chain

King's Landing

Like cattle, Lyra was branded.

"Outsider" was forged by flame and a sharp wire on the underside of her right forearm. The cruel boy had taken over the beatings and brainwashing of Lyra now that her body and mind had broken, and thought it would bode him well, and make Ser Deacon proud, if he were to mark the girl forever. The engraving of the dreaded word was a token for all to know that the girl was a monster.

Lyra was barely conscious, and had closed her mind. She lay there, dead to the world, all day and every day. No thoughts, as it would seem, entered her mind but one – _Vicious little monster._

No longer could she deny it, it was now engraved in her skin. Forever shunned, forever hated, forever to be spat upon and kicked into the dust. The girl accepted what she had tried so hard to fight – the crime was that of being an Outsider, and that crime deserved a punishment.

At once, all the weeping she had concealed deep within her little body, all the nights she'd howled to the moon in a desperate plea for mercy, all the times she bit her lip until it bled as the axe handle cracked down hard on her body tumbled out with furious haste. She was on her knees, cowering in the shadows, her weak and bone thin arms were hiding her face in terror.

She was raising the white flag to the figure looming above – the God of Death – and yelled, "I surrender!"

She was broken. She was shattered. She was a whisper, a ghost, of the girl that departed Winterfell, and suddenly she had to accept the reality that she would never return home.

She would be beside her father once more, yet in a way she had never fathomed. Her head would be on a spike, blackened by tar for preservation. Dead, but together - the Stark chain was breaking here in this world, but as each of the Stark's howled in surrender at the end of their days, they would yield to the God of Death and die…and the Stark chain would bind once more.

Only in death was there mercy.

In life there was no mercy. Mercy did not exist.

Proving her theory that for so long she tried to deny, the cruel toad of a boy cackled at the door of her room and picked his teeth with a knife. Not just any knife – Wolf. Wolf wasn't just some chunk of steel, it was Jon. It was the memory of his kindness, his love for her, his similarity and understanding. He was a Bastard, she an Outsider – they bonded as outcasts. They were alone, but together; they were different, but the same. United by their uniqueness, and the hatred all had for them.

When Lyra hugged Wolf, it was her way of hugging the brother she longed for, it was like he was hugging her back. And now there he was – Jon – picking the teeth of the boy who would probably beat her and torment her until the sun rose once more.

Yet, Lyra just lay there, trying to think anything but "vicious little monster". It rattled around in her mind, but she was certainly not gone. She was still clever, and a convoluted escape was unfolding. It was to come in the way of the only two weapons Lyra knew for sure she had with her presently – her brain, and the rusty nail she had been twisting out of the floor boards for the past days.

Such an escape could only happen if Lyra embraced her inner monster. If she were born a monster, she would make those who unleashed her regret it. They would claw and scratch at the earth, they would dig their way to hell to escape the hell she would bring upon them.

An Outsider, as her wise Maester had once said, _always had a plan._

She had no name.

She had no family.

But, boy, did she have a plan.


	37. Companionship with Darkness

King's Landing

She twisted at the rusty nail with steady endurance. Her brow was furrowed with concentration, and her eyes rarely blinked. _An Outsider always has a plan_ , she told herself.

Inside her mind was ticking, planning, plotting and hatching an elaborate plan. Her mind never switched off and she was still, at her core, very clever - even though her Soul was not there.

Outside, though, she was broken. She had been beaten, burned and brainwashed. Her body shook frantically, and her finger tapped the floor boards psychotically. It tapped at her mind and seized her control - _Vicious little monster, there is no such thing as mercy._

The darkness loomed over her, to which she did not mind. She embraced its presence now and welcomed it like an old friend. The demons living in it no longer frightened her and an odd respect fell upon them. She felt at ease without the existence of light. The dead in the corner of her eye no longer seemed as scary as they once were, and the wind simply refused to whisper her name these days. The darkness was once perceived as evil, yet now Lyra saw it as companionship.

The darkness never betrayed her, while light often did.

"There is no such thing as mercy!" she screamed at the emptiness repeatedly, "There is no such thing as mercy!"

Only one fear remained: the monster in the mirror.

No matter how dark her world could become, she would still beg not to be with such a beast. The memory of its icy face in her mirror sent shivers down her spine, and fear crept back in.

"Monsters only feed on other monsters" Old Nan had told her once. It was a ploy to help her sleep better, to settle the young lady's mind. She had been up all night, nearing her third Nameday, running down the halls of Winterfell, throwing open the the doors to all her siblings' chambers. She screamed that the monster was there, that he kept on staring at her. Jon and Robb had run into her chamber with their wooden swords, ready to defend, only to find it empty. They never saw the monster. Her mother scooped her in her arms and planted kisses all over her face, Old Nan soothed her with stories of flowers and the summer, yet nothing but her Maester's sleeping draught would ease her out of her frantic state.

As Lyra drifted off to sleep that night, Old Nan leaned in and said, "My child, never forget that Monster's only feed on other monsters. If you don't want to be eaten by a monster, don't become a monster."

At the time, Lyra was innocent and had only pure thoughts. She liked to run and play and pretend she was a knight. Her becoming a monster was never likely. Maester Leland feared it, though, and when he entered back into her chamber, he had scolded Old Nan for such a story.

Now she was a monster, and she feared what the monster in her mirror would do. She was scared it would appear again. She was scared of her own reflection.

Then Lyra stopped and wondered - if I were to look in my reflection, would I see a girl or a monster? Maybe she WAS the monster in the mirror. Maybe she was merely frightened of herself. The thoughts distracted her briefly, until she heard the cruel boy's footsteps head toward her locked room.

She had to ignore her fears, and embrace the monster. She had to rise from hell and bring regret and misery upon all who unleashed her darkest demon.

"There is no such thing as mercy!" she spat at the darkness, telling herself. The door lock clicked and the door swung open. Lyra could here the toad of a boy bash Wolf against the Wall, before sharpening it with a whetstone and snarling, "This might be a stupid little blade, but it sure would be fun to skewer you with it."

"There is no such thing as mercy", Lyra growled again. She believed it - or, at least she _wanted_ to believe it - for it would make what she was about to do easier.

Lyra counted the seconds. She had been planning the very manoeuvre she was about to perform, down to the last second, for weeks. Yet, she felt so unprepared. For weeks she had memorised the movements the boy made, and each day he was unaware that he was making a dozen stupid mistakes. Lyra, precocious as always, lapped up his stupidity and locked it in her mind. She would learn from him.

Never did he change his actions; he always made the exact movement, in the exact time span. Worse though, he made a mistake even the line of stupid Kings of the past wouldn't be foolish enough to make: he never closed the door behind him.

He was secure in his power and Lyra's frailty. Yet the idiotic boy did not know that Lyra was stronger now, and had been mocking her frailty over the past weeks. She was merely deceiving him, and ultimately distracting him.

 _Poor, stupid boy,_ Lyra thought with a smile. _If you dance in the light for too long, eventually the shadows will catch you, and the monster that lurks in its darkness will dance you to your grave._

The boy knelt down by her side, and Lyra felt Wolf's cold blade against her neck. The boy ran the blade across her neck multiple times, getting harder with each stroke. Soon, blood had been drawn and pain met her.

 _It is time_ , a voice whispered in her head, and for a second Lyra thought it might be Lev, but she didn't have time to wonder.

In her head had she escaped a million times, only did her Soul have the wings to fly away - Lyra just had to pray the God of Death was looking down on her mercifully.

The boy knelt down further, and smirked in her dead eyes. Lyra cocked her head, and spat in his face. A smirk crept across her sullen face, as the boy growled and readied Wolf for one final blow.

"Die, Monster!" he screamed.

In the shadows, the monster danced, embracing the darkness like a long lost friend.

"There is no such thing as mercy", Lyra whispered to him.

With a smile, she drove the rusty nail into the boy's neck.


	38. The Monster Escapes

_Lev watched on in silent zeal. If he could, he would turn into a hyena so he could laugh at his cheeky master's plan unfolding. When he tapped into Lyra's mind only weeks ago, the plan was in disarray, yet now it was unfolding._

 _He was hidden in the shadows of the room, a mere spider on the wall. The spider was the Outsider symbol of making your own decisions, and being in control of your destiny. For that, Lev smiled at his transformation, at Lyra's. She was the captain now, she was in charge._

 _Bloodied and mangled, the body lay on the floor. The face was unidentifiable; it was a battered mess, covered in blood and dust. A rusty nail was in a pool of blood nearby, and up above was morbid writing was on the wall; writing in blood. The wall had been Lyra's canvas, the blood of her foe the paint. All the wall spoke was one word, but a word that made even Ser Deacon's skin crawl - "Monster"._

 _He had unleashed the monster._

 _Lev watched on as Ser Deacon stared at the mangled body on the ground. With a look of abhorrence on his scowling face, he struggled to recognise the body. It was so beaten, and mangled and bloodied, he no longer could see the face of the boy underneath or defining details; even his lank hair was mattered and dampened with blood._

 _The boy seemed smaller now, no longer as fat. His black clothes hung off him and was not hugging his overweight figure. Yet, anyone who had been attacked by a five year old would probably feel pretty small. Ser Deacon screamed for the guards, and three of them rushed into the room._

 _Lev crawled back toward the wall more, back into the shadows. He squished his spider form into the tightest ball he could muster, and closed seven of his eight eyes. The booming voice of Ser Deacon reverberated all around the room, and it even sent a soft vibration to the wall Lev was standing on. Still, he didn't move, he only watched the performance unfold._

 _Ser Deacon barked at the guards, and sent one off to alert all that a monster was on the loose. Like all the other rumours and stories about the younger Stark, this one would spread quickly, too. On his nights roaming the halls of the castle, or sitting perched in a tree near to his master's distressed cries, a hushed whisper, a fable to scare children, was born. The story was that of a girl who became a monster, and crept about in the shadows, eating children who strayed. "The Madness of Lyra Stark" kept children close to their parents, and forbid them for stepping into the shadows, for that is where the monster lurked._

 _At first it saddened Lev, until he thought about it further, and the perks of such a fable became known. If it means people fear his girl, then maybe, for some time, Lyra will be left alone because of this fear. He smiled to himself._

 _One of the two guards remaining knelt by the bloodied body's side, and rested his head on its chest. After several seconds, he shot up and said, "He's alive! He's breathing!"_

 _Ser Deacon showed not even the slightest hint of consolation, instead he just asked through gritted teeth, "Why in Seven Hell's would the Monster keep the boy alive?!"_

 _The second guard, standing on the other side of the body, said, "We should take him to the Maester or the Silent Sisters, they'll nurse him and bring him back. Then, perhaps, he can tell us where the monster fled."_

 _A sound of bells was heard, bells alerting all that the monster had escaped, and Lev shrunk deeper into the shadow. The gates would be closed, the guards would be assembled. They would shoot arrows from every window and battlement, they would kill the Monster at first glance._

 _Lev just hoped Lyra's plan worked._

 _Ser Deacon drew his sword and sprinted out of the room, screaming something inaudible. The guards assembled at either end of the body and lifted it into the air, rushing it out of the blood soaked room and to a Maester. The Maester's dungeons were lower down in the castle, not too far from the dungeons._

 _Lev scurried along behind them, his eight feet dancing joyfully. He was leaving the room, just as Lyra had. So far, her plan was working. Not one person had figured it out yet, instead, they were walking farther into Lyra's trap, and just now, they were walking Lyra farther out of the castle._

 _Lev cried with joy._

 _His master was most certainly wise._


	39. The Dungeons

King's Landing

Toward the Maester's chambers, the guards carried the body. It was light between them, not heavy or a burden of dead weight. Exposed skin, namely the face and hands, were a bloody mess. Yet, despite the mangled appearance, the casualty's breathing was remarkably strong. The guards' renewed great hope that the body would be recovered and the boy would awaken to tell them what had happened, and where the monster had escaped.

They had no idea where Lyra was, and that gave her a magnificent feeling; a feeling she simply couldn't grasp onto. She did not like power, power was just "evil" with honey dripped over it, but it was still a wonderful feeling. She was near to them, yet cleverly out of sight.

She could hear the panting of the guards as they carried the body. While it was light, the length of time they had been holding it wore on them and sent a painful ache up their arms. Still, with agitated sighs and a flurry of obscenities, they persisted and lifted the body.

Their treads were slow and heavy, and it seemed like ages they had been carrying the load, yet they seemed to have gone nowhere. They were still on one of the many of the floors containing dungeons. It was dark and eerie, and they had no flame to light their way. Each floor held a different kind of perpetrator, each had committed a different crime, yet they were all untied by their lack of freedom. Some prisoners were punishable, but not as dreadful as others. Another floor was reserved for the vilest of creatures, and that had been the floor Lyra was on. Down deeper was where screams ripped apart any man, and it was best to walk without light as no man would want to see what occurred down there; these dungeons were for the tortured prisoners.

The load the guards were carrying might have been heavy, yes, but their consciences were heavier. They weighed deep inside the men, and the extreme terror lurked in their rapidly beating hearts.

"Where do you think the monster fled to?" one guard asked, trying to distract himself.

"Only the Gods know", the other answered quickly, "But _it_ could not have left the castle. The gates are shut; the guards are manning each battlement, each window, and each chamber. No hope for _it_."

"It", they called her. The word rang through her mind, and she added it the collection of atrocities she had been called. All the foul words and wicked terms used to describe her were banked up in her mind, and one day, she was determined, she would cash them in for revenge.

She was getting used to the names other called her, though. Like "monster", she embraced it, and would use it against them. She would use her own flaws as her armour. "It" implied that she wasn't a real being, or that, in some form, she wasn't all there.

 _Yes_ , she thought to herself, _I can use this against them_.

She was an "it" to them; she was invisible, but present. She was like the strong gusts of wind atop her favourite hill near to Winterfell. The wind was invisible, but its gusts were so harsh, they could knock over her father, and her father was the strongest man she had ever known.

 _Like the wind, I will be silent yet harsh; an invisible force_ , Lyra told herself defiantly.

Like the wind, she remained hidden. She twitched impatiently, itching to reveal herself and embark further on the plan of escape that had taken over her mind.

The guards continued to carry the body, chuckling to themselves about the fate of the monster, ignoring the menacing laughter coming from some cells near to them.

The first guard chuckled, "Soon we will have a dead monster on our hands", and the other chortled back, "Bloody Stark's. Kill them all, I say. Her father was a traitor, her mother a whore and they have a clan on pompous brats; a bastard, Outsider and cripple among them.

"Aye, send them to their graves", the first nodded in agreement.

They were nearly out of the dungeons, and were a floor or two above the vilest of criminals. They felt safe. Yet that safety was all but fleeting, as soon after, a low growl sliced through the air. Instantaneously, they turned their heads to face a dog behind a cage. No, it wasn't a dog – it was a Direwolf. Though its large form was caged and its mouth muzzled, its fiery red coat billowed like fire in the cell.

The Direwolf sniffed at the body, and resumed growling shortly after. The guards were keen to hurry passed, however, a lump of flesh and blood obscured the barren corridor just a few steps before them. They placed the body on the ground by the cell of the wolf, and hesitantly leaned toward it. Both were so frightened they jumped back in fright before they got a chance to see the fat lump on the floor.

Finally, one guard asked the question Lyra had been waiting for: "Why did she keep the boy alive?"

They looked at the body and at the lump before them. They drew their swords, and readied themselves to attack the fat lump should it attack, should it end up being the Monster.

They took a step closer and gasped in shock. The lump was merely an overweight boy, hacked to death by a knife and what looked to be a thin object. The boy had a head, but no face – the face had been cut off and the remnant was bloodied and bony, veins and tendons shooting out in each and every direction.

Suddenly it clicked for the smaller man; it was the nail, left in a pool of blood, in the dungeon that held the Monster. Then the reality swam up to meet him – the corpse was the boy.

Who then was the body they had been carrying out of the dungeons?

As the guards looked in shock at the corpse, the body began to rise behind them. Pulling off the bloodied mess of a face, the Monster made herself known.

"There is no such thing as mercy!" she whispered, and before they got the chance to turn to see their undoing, she had knifed them both in the back.


	40. The Battlefield of the Mind

King's Landing

A war was raging in her mind, and she braced herself for the inevitable casualties. Innocence had been lost in a previous battle, as it often was the first casualty in a war, and mercy faded soon after.

It was all so peculiar, suddenly. Inside her little body, Lyra felt every emotion clash, like two sides, two enemies charging and colliding on a battle field. Deep down, the old Lyra Stark was retching and vomiting at the thought of the act she just committed. "Forgive me!" she heard the frightened girl scream, and while she tried her best to calm her, it was no use. The little girl was so frightened, and ached to be held by her mother and father.

The Monster's cold heart beat slightly, and ached in remembrance. The little girl meant a lot to her, and the Monster knew she had to protect her. The little girl was her conscience, the voice of reason, the voice of mercy, and the voice of the past. Like she had prayed for her Soul to remain, she prayed her Conscience would too.

Contradictory to this, on the other side of her internal battle field, was the Monster. The Monster was the main reason she was alive, the only reason she was able to escape in such a convoluted and gruesome manner. Her conscience was repulsed by such a plan, but had to capitulate to the opponent, and become an ally of sought. The Monster was the survivalist nature to her when in full force, and she comforted herself with the knowledge that she was only doing what had to be done to stay alive.

Her Conscience rioted against the Monster's mercilessness and desire for revenge. She didn't know what to feel. _Feelings._ It had seemed as if they were beaten out of her. The colour had seeped out of her life and she was now living a two-toned existence. What was happiness? What was misery? All she knew was this. All she knew was the darkness of pain and hate, with flashes of her family and her home littering the sky like a million bright stars. They were out of reach to her, but one day, perhaps, she could reach out and grab them.

Perhaps, Lyra reflected, the most severe battles are not the wars we fight with each other, but the battle that is suppressed within the mind.

It felt like a clash between ice and fire within her veins; similar to when she touched something so cold it burnt her like fire.

Lyra looked at the bodies on the floor, and her internal war raged. Clash! They collided on the battlefield of her mind, and sent her into a trembling mess. Oh, how she was broken. She was so cracked, and flawed and twisted even she didn't trust herself.

Her plan, thus far, had worked. She had found the perfect disguise; the remnants of the cruel boy who tortured her. She was bathed in his blood and donning his clothes and boots, but it still made her stomach churn slightly. Deep beneath the rubble, the former Lyra Stark was still there, and for that she felt an odd sense of relief.

She snapped back to the reality she was living. Chief's red fur raged like fire behind the cage, but ever so softly his tail wagged in delight of seeing his master. On a hook at the end of the corridor was a key - Lev had been here before, and had picked apart the floors of the place, and the placement of the key, foolish as it was, was something to report back to his Master. The key didn't glisten in the darkness, it was dull and grey, and matched the atmosphere of the world is unlocked.

At long last, Chief was freed from his cage. Lyra extended her hand timidly, and the wolf licked her blood-soaked flesh. Steadily, Lyra moved her hand and ran her hand through his coat. It was longer now, and the red was a brighter colour. He had patches of white in the red, which had always reminded her of patches of snow melting in a sea of flame. He had white eyebrows atop his pale grey eyes, which lifted to show his emotion. Of all the Direwolves, Chief was the most expressive.

Lyra went from warily touching his fur, to squeezing him in her arms. Chief cocked his head to the left, and raised one little white eyebrow. His pale eyes looked into Lyra's sadly, like he saw the brokenness of her mind. Lyra rested her head on his large furry chest, and clenched a tuft of his fur in her scarred hand. They would never be separated again.

She couldn't speak what she wanted to say, instead all that came out were the only phrases she could recall; "there is no such thing as mercy." Chief whined softly, and butted Lyra's head with his own. The girl stood up and straightened out her stolen clothing, while Chief lingered still in the darkness.

"Halt!" a voice yelled, and she heard the sound of a sword drawing. Lyra lifted her shirt, and tucked neatly in the waist of her pants was wolf. Her own blade. No more could the foolish boy pick his teeth with it, for it, once again, belonged to her.

Lyra stared at the man for a long while; he had gold armour on, and proudly boasted the Lannister lion on the front.

The Monster and her Conscience were readied for another battle, she could tell. She could feel.

Lyra put wolf back into the waist of her black pants, and turned around so her back was facing the guard. "Forgive me!" her Conscience cried, but the begging cries were drowned by the outraged scream of the monster, "There is no such thing as mercy!"

She began to take a few slow, menacing steps - walking away from the man and into the shadow.

"Halt, or I'll skewer you!" the man yelled again.

To the darkness, Lyra kept walking. The small heel of her tall black boots made a noise to echo around the dungeons, but the man's footsteps were louder. They were racing up behind her. Still, the girl kept walking slowly, calmly and menacingly.

Whether the weapon was the darkness, or whether the weapon was within the darkness, she was unsure, but she knew what she had to do.

The man was closer now. Lyra could feel his presence tower over her, and could feel the heaviness of the guard's sword in the air behind her.

Just as Lyra entered the shadow, her Direwolf left it. Like an angry fire, Chief shot through the air, clearing over Lyra's head and landing on the guard's.

The screams were dreadful. The sound of this bones being ripped apart in Chief's large jaw was dreadful, too. Be that as it may, the dreadfulness was needed - it ensured she remained alive.

Without looking back, without changing pace and without a single twitch in her facial expression, Lyra kept on walking toward the shadow.

 _Clash!_

Her Conscience and the Monster were fighting again.


	41. Time to be Free

_He danced in the dim of the room, offering colour to the gloom of King's Landing. He was an ashen moth fluttering in the corner. He looked down from his place in the sky and twirled to get his Master's attention._

 _Lyra was cloaked in darkness, and covered in blood. Yet her mind was so sharp, it would cut through the foolishness of the guards quicker than anyone else he could ever meet. Slowly, she lifted her eyes to the moth, while holding her hand over Wolf unintentionally; she had lost all her trust._

 _The flame-coloured Direwolf calmed Lyra with a gentle nudge in the arm, and Lyra loosened her grip on her blade. Lev tried to call to Lyra, to speak to her in a thousand silent ways, but Lyra had closed her mind. While imprisoned and during the time her mind was open, a Monster had crawled in, and she was too scared to welcome anything else. Her mind was either like a deep, dark abyss that he hoped to light, or a dungeon with no form of exit. It was dark and dreary and offered no escape._

 _One day, he would find a way to unlock her from the cage of her mind. First and foremost, he was to free his girl from her literal dungeon, before finding the key and unleashing her from her figurative one._

 _Though her face was bloodied and battered and void of any expression, her eyes twinkled slightly at the realization her Soul had not left her. He never would, not until it was time for her heart to beat its last, then he would carry her on his wings and they would fly, united, forever._

 _He had left her once before, during her fourth year, when Lyra broke down after seeing the Monster in the mirror. He regretted his actions, many nights he would stare at her little broken body and beg for forgiveness. "I beg of your forgiveness!" he would cry, and his Master would hold him tightly. Now, it was his turn. It was his turn to hold her tightly._

 _He had explored King's Landing from its highest high, to its lowest, most treacherous depths. From the Tower of the Hand, to the holdfasts, to the grimy towns he had wandered, across Blackwater Bay he had flown. All of which were too noticeable for a town that was lit like a candle, searching for one person: his master._

 _He eventually decided on the most impoverished town of King's Landing, Fleabottom. Only the poorest lived there, and they sent themselves to early graves living in squalor and disease. Oft times, he would roam the towns disguised as a rat, to which he found himself frequently shooed and stamped upon. Yet, in Fleabottom, no one cared. A rat was about as frequent as a weed in a garden; no one had the strength to mind._

 _Fleabottom crept up close to the castle they were imprisoned in, and sewers branched underneath. So be it, he decided, the sewers were the way to go. He peered behind him to see Lyra still following him, leaping from shadow to shadow. Soon they were upon the sewers, and Lev knew Lyra was getting restless with the anticipation of escape. It had been a long time since she had been freed, and the last time she had seen the sun was the day her father lost his head._

 _Lyra did not hesitate, nor did she screw up her nose at the foul smell. She got on her hands and knees and crawled through the mud and excrement, her eyes determinedly glaring at the end of the long passage, nearly shaking in excitement at the mere thought of seeing sunlight. The blood that soaked her was now covered in mud. Lev watched her crawling off, and smiled to himself. She was easy to convince._

 _Unfortunately, her Direwolf wasn't. At the edge of the sewer, Chief sat on his haunches, his chin stuck in the air, sulking at the thought of crawling through the filth. Lev fluttered by his side and laughed to himself; Chief was more of a princess than Lyra was._

 _Time was not on their side, and Chief needed to know this. Transforming into an Owl, Lev snapped at Chief's big tail with his sharp beak, causing him to yowl in pain. It was then that nothing could have convinced him not to enter the sewers. Like a flamethrower or fireball in a tunnel, Chief's red coat was only seen at a blur in his rush. He dashed through the dark tunnels, surpassing Lyra in his flurry, and splashing mud and faeces in her face, mouth and eyes in his panic._

 _Lev caught up and landed on Lyra's muddied shoulder. She was panting at the effort it took. The product she was crawling through was thick and smelled foul, and it took all her strength to pull each arm out of the mud and haul her legs along. Lev stared at her, proudly, beaming at her determination. She turned her head, and stared at him with intense eyes. Her lip twitched slightly, and Lev knew she was trying to smile but had forgotten how. That was another thing he would do. He would free her, open her mind, and teach her to smile and laugh and love. The list just kept getting longer._

 _Before long, a slight ray of light broke through the dark sewers. Lyra stared at awe at the light breaking through the tunnel, and Chief glared at Lev with angry eyes._

 _They sat at the edge of the sewers for a short time, preparing themselves for the mad dash that was to come. Lev snuggled into Lyra's neck, and Chief, still glaring at Lev, plonked himself on Lyra's lap. Lev looked up to see tears glistening in his girl's eyes. Though he couldn't hear her mind anymore, he knew what she was thinking. This was her family. They were now a team, her loyal companions, the only she could trust. Lev looked at his new companions, too. If the worst was to come, if the guards were waiting outside the sewer to ravage their bodies, he would be happy to die. To die with his family._

 _It was time._

 _Time to run._

 _Out in the sunlight Lyra and Chief sprinted, Lev flapping high above in the sky. Lyra closed her eyes and ran faster than she ever had before. Lev squawked and Lyra opened her eyes – the dense forest was arriving. She heard villagers squeal, but she couldn't blame them. Seeing a girl, a wolf and an owl emerge from a sewer would understandably be shocking._

 _Lev looked down at Lyra as they approached the bush. No guards seemed to be on their trails. He pulled up higher in the sky, and saw their locations. There were guards around every door and circling the main towers of King's Landing, yet none considered the sewer. Again, Lev smiled._

 _Down below, Chief and Lyra entered the thick of the forest, and instantly they swerved off the main path to avoid being seen._

 _Crackling through his mind, he could have sworn he heard Lyra's little voice._

" _I'm free!" the voice cried in glee._

" _I'm free! I'm free! I'm free!"_


	42. Running Without Ceasing

The Kingswood

Her mind was closed and so were her eyes. She ran without ceasing, and by her side, her wolf did the same. Chief panted slightly, and when Lyra tuned back into her surroundings, she noticed his red and white paws were smothered in blood, scathed from padding along quickly on the rocks and unearthed roots in the Kingswood. He was determined, like his human, to escape and be free.

King's Landing was merely a speck on the horizon, but Lyra and her companions refused to stop running. Her feet were a bloody mess, and blood and mud oozed through her toes within her scuffed and tattered boots. The boots had been in fine condition when she had stolen them from the fat boy's corpse, but they were now so perforated, blood dribbled out and left a red trail on the ground behind her.

She looked to the sky above, but Lev was nowhere to be seen. He had not left her, yet he had stopped speaking to her. She tried to open her mind, but it was closed to conceal the monster. It was a defence mechanism, a way to not only protect herself, but an attempt at protecting others.

Running.

That is all she could think to do. Run far away from the Hell she had gotten so used to. She pushed herself through the pain, and focused on the seclusion of the forest. She looked behind her as she ran and noticed King's Landing, even the highest spire of the tallest tower, was completely out of sight now.

It was only then that she truly felt free. Her freedom hit her suddenly, but so did the realisation that she had no idea how to survive in the forest. She had no idea how to do any of it. Yet, she would learn to live this way, she would embrace this new normal the way she had embraced the many old normal's that had been and gone.

Lyra collapsed on her weak knees and sank to the ground, wincing at the sting in her feet, and the ache of her legs. She drew wolf and cut some of her shirt off and binded her broken shoes with the cloth to plug the many tattered holes. Her throat and lips were dry and her tongue stuck to the roof of mouth, due to the lack of moisture. It was only now she noticed how much her feet hurt, how much the entirety of her little body ached, and how terribly thirsty she was.

By her side, Chief yowled in hunger, before looking up and growling angrily at something up a tree above him. Lyra, too, looked up, where she saw a little white bird cracking nuts with its beak. He had gathered food for himself, and he was now chirping encouragement for his companions to do the same.

Chief pricked his ears in the air in recognition of a noise, and crouched down so he was out of sight behind tufts of dying grass. He growled softly and crept forward. This was new to him. He had been imprisoned at only several months old, and never got the chance to learn to hunt as Lyra had hoped. During their days at Winterfell, Lyra would nick food from the kitchen and hand feed him, thinking she was being sweet to offer him food. All she had done was denied him of his species natural instinct – to hunt like a wolf.

Suddenly, he pounced and after a little bit of a struggle he sank his fangs into his prey. It was only a rabbit, but a starting point. Lyra felt her stomach twist and disgust creep in. It had always bothered, since before she could remember, that she were eating animals unsure whether or not they were really Outsider's Souls. How would commonfolk know that the suckling pig on their table wasn't truthfully someone's Soul? The Outsider looked to the sky above and saw a little nod from Lev – it was okay, this was just an animal. Sure, it undoubtedly _had_ a soul, but it wasn't _somebody's_ Soul.

Chief, deceased rabbit in mouth, turned around, his tail wagging happily. At the look of his master, his happiness changed to an odd sadness. He padded forward and placed the dead rabbit in front of her, and gently bowed his head. He wanted her to have it, despite it being rightfully his.

 _We will share,_ Lyra tried to say, but all it came out as was "there is no such thing as mercy". Lyra looked shocked, and so did Chief. Again, she tried.

 _We will share,_ her mind screamed, yet the words that sounded in the ears of her companions were the same two phrases she had been beaten into saying – "Vicious little monster" and "there is no such thing as mercy".

Chief sank his pale eyes to the ground and his tail twitched slightly before ceasing its merry dance altogether. Lev soared from his high branch in the tree and landed on a branch lower down, before bowing slightly and flying off through the clearing.

Chief picked up the dead rabbit and carried in closer to Lyra before nudging it with his nose. She knew no words could express what she wanted to say, so instead she leaned forward and rested her head against his chest wall, until she could feel the heavy beat of his heart. He had a big heart. Animals were truly more affectionate and compassionate than all the humans in the world.

Soon enough, Lev returned with bits of twig and bark and dead grass bundled together in his beak. He dropped it on the ground beside Lyra and the dead rabbit and nodded at it, before looking at Lyra and nodding again.

 _A nest_? She wondered. Lev stared at her and urged her to think.

 _Shelter_? She thought again. Her Soul continued to stare at her quizzically, until finally she knew what was happening. He was teaching her.

He wanted her to make a fire. Like her old Maester before her, Lev and Chief had become her teachers.

She had never made a fire before, she never needed too. She had watched maids light the fireplace in her room at Winterfell before, but never thought she would have to learn to do so herself. The first step she knew was she needed two pieces of wood - sticks, as they were abundant, would be fine.

Lyra stared, utterly clueless, at the sticks and pile of leaves and twigs before her, and suddenly became so overwhelmed she wanted to scream. Lev tried to pick up the leaves and drop them again in front of her, but his voice was absent. There was no one there to tell her, no one there to teach her, no one there to guide her through this nightmarish hell she had found herself lost in the moment she left the North.

She ran through the clearing, ignoring the pain in her feet, the tears streaking down her face, brown with dried mud, and the scampers of her companions behind her.

She just ran. Running was all she knew to do now.

Night would soon be upon them - her second night in the danger of the forest. The first night, despite a few breaks to catch her breath, Lyra journeyed forth, walking slowly and using her hands to feel if she were to bump into anything. Now, she was just too tired and hungry and thirsty to do any of it again.

She ran and cried and howled at the first sight of the moon peaking up over the tops of the forest. Chief had caught up with her and bored his pale eyes into her. Just as she and Chief made eye contact, her feet were met with icy goodness. Before she had the chance to look, she felt instant relief. It rushed through her tattered boots, oozed through her toes and swelled to her ankles.

Chief frolicked happily, before sticking his long tongue out and lapping it up, barking happily for his companion to join.

 _Water!_ She cried to herself. She plunged her face into the glory of it and swallowed mouthful after mouthful until she could feel her stomach fill. Her cracked lips cried in happiness and her throat was smooth once again.

There was some goodness left in the world. And it was glorious.


	43. Raised by the Wild

In the Wild, bordering on the Kingswood

The world was vast, and the wonders never expired. There were many lessons that a human man could not teach his children that a wolf and a Helai could. The teachers of the wild were the best to raise a child.

Lyra was learning to survive.

Lev would fly high into the tree and sing a tune of motivation to Lyra, and all the while Chief would nip at Lyra's ankles, encouraging her to climb with haste.

Lev would sit on the branch beside her, a proud white bird, and he would shake nuts he had collected in his beak to determine which was heaviest, and he would discard of the rest. Berries, too, were abundant, and Lev's natural instinct was to reject those that were poisonous. Lyra observed and noticed which colour was unsafe, and what a healthy berry looked like.

Chief would crouch down when he hunted, ensuring he was out of sight. Lyra would watch from a distance and observe her companion silently. Only when the animal was unsuspecting would Chief lunge, and he guaranteed that the animal was in no pain, and if it was, it was passing. Lyra learned something none of the cooks in Winterfell or King's Landing knew. If the prey was scared at the time of its death, the meet would be firmer. However, in ensuring the peace of the animal - hence a surprise attack - the meet was tender.

Each meal Chief would gather, he would place the meat in front of Lyra and share his meal. He would bow his head like she was his Queen, and refuse to eat. Lyra wanted to eat, but she couldn't - she knew raw meet was dangerous to ingest. And if there was something she could not do, it was make fire. No matter how how frequently Lev would place sticks, leaves and dry, dead grass in front of her, or no matter how much kindling Chief would fetch, Lyra could not make a flame.

After ages of trying and whittling at sticks, Lyra could produce only smoke, and nothing more. It seemed to her that a flame was preparing to emerge, but would go out when she came close - it was like she was made of ice, and her presence would cease any hint of heat. _A curse_ , she deemed it. Maybe even fire was scared of her monstrous self.

Still, there were lessons to be learned, and Lyra could find other ways of eating. She would find a nest of bees, securely tucked into the hollow of a tree, and she would shove the ball of smoke she could make into the hole causing the bees to fly out, or become stunned.

She would reach her hand in, and pull out handful after handful of glorious honeycomb. The sweetness of it was unlike anything she had ever tasted. It made her gums tingle, it numbed her lips and sickened her to her stomach. Yet, it was delightful and she simply could not help but continue to indulge on its mysterious goodness.

She would collect water on drops of dew, or drink from the cleanest section of a running river - but she ensured to keep her eyes adverted. Besides being unable to make fire, she was also unable to muster up the courage to look at her reflection. A monster, she feared, would growl back. She scared herself immensely, perhaps more than she scared others.

She would then assign Lev, Chief or herself to keep watch while they chased sleep, and Lyra ran away from her nightmares. They chased her from her subconscious into her reality, and the nightmare never ended, yet she was getting used to it. She was getting used to the darkness and saw it as an ally, or third companion on her long, lonely nights.

While the Outsider had once worn her Stark honour as a badge, it was now rusty and of no use to her. She entered the perilous night and cloaked herself in darkness.

Often she travelled at night, sleeping only when exhaustion overwhelmed her. Not many people roamed at night, and she felt more peace than usual. It was dark and empty and lonely, but desperately beautiful.

She had always preferred the dark night and cold winter. The sun, the Outsider had grown to believe, only saw her body. The moon, however, saw her Soul. That was why she preferred the darkness of night over the light of day.

The bid for survival never ended. The daily ritual of learning, hunting, running, climbing and surviving endured through the night and into the light of the next day, and the days following.

She drew Wolf and crouched like her direwolf out of sight. She was, at last, determined to hunt for herself, by herself. It was time to prove to her mentors that she was worthy. She would return to Chief and place the food in front of him.

Crouching behind the bush, she spotted a hare. It was small, yes, but a starting point. The hare's ears pricked up at a noise and bolted. Lyra suddenly became aware of a presence behind her. Her heart both sank in reminder of who she was running from, and rattled quickly inside her chest. Ah, this feeling. This was another of those odd feelings that she had tuned out. Another feeling that had blended into the others making her unable to distinguish between them.

FEAR.

She held Wolf and tried to call to Lev silently, yet she knew it was of no use. He could not hear her. She had closed her mind, and though she knew he tried, he could not unlock the cage.

She clenched her fist around her blade and readied herself for this battle.

She spun around.

And there she saw him.

A man that made her stomach flip.

Memories ripped at her insides and pleaded to be let out, yet she concealed them deep inside her with the Monster.

She gripped the blade harder, but couldn't bring herself to attack, though she knew she should. He was dangerous and Lyra did not trust anyone.

 _LEV!_ She bellowed to her Soul. It was in her mind, but it was so loud her insides rattled. Still, he did not come. She tried to speak out loud, she tried to call to him in reality, yet all that came out was "There is no such thing as mercy!" and "Vicious little monster" trailing quickly behind.

The man, a man she once knew but was now all but a ghost to her, looked down on her sadly.

And then he drew his sword.


	44. The Light in Darkness

Edge of the Kingswood, Near to Felwood

As she closed her mind to conceal the Monster, Lyra did not only lock Lev out. She refused the access of memories. They were buried within her, deep and unbroken under the rubble of the destruction of her life.

One day, perhaps if the Monster left her mind and Lev freed her, she would be willing to open them up and relive them. Maybe the old Lyra Stark was still just a little girl searching for a way out. Maybe, just maybe, there was a flame of hope flickering that Lyra was still Lyra.

Nonetheless, she simply did not remember. She refused to remember the smiles, the laughter she had once known, the happy endings she believed in - they did nothing but make her sadder. Something she lost, something she longed for, but something she could not have. She would brace her little body and prepare herself for the darkness to pound on her frame once again.

Though, she did recall.

She recalled the man's face. It had once filled her mind as she fell asleep with a smile, it comforted her fears when she was locked in her cell, and now, the same face was staring back at her.

The memories were desperate to swarm to the surface. They beat on the cage doors of her mind, pleading to be let out, pleading to see the light of day, a chance to bathe in the sunlight and glory as they once had.

His hair. His posture. His sword. His little smirk that twitched when his dancing eyes landed upon her face.

The man, gripping the hilt of his sword, bent his knee and knelt by Lyra's side.

"At last, we are together again, my dear Knight", he spoke with a tear in his eye.

Lyra stared at him fiercely. The battle raged inside her; her Conscience urged the girl to trust him, to open her mind even just the slightest crack so the smallest burst of light could burst through, but Lyra silently objected. She had been blind enough to open her mind once before, in her innocence, and a terrible beast had crawled inside. She had lost all her trust, and it was not something to be easily earned back, or something to be taken lightly.

The man stared at her, and after seeing the dull, empty, lost ice colour of her eyes, his own lost their life, too. The girl he had once known had gone. Ser Lyra had gone - and Lyra could tell that he grieved silently. Still he remained crouched down. He placed his sword on the ground in front of her and bowed his head.

"Never will I hurt you, my dearest Knight. Never. For you are Ser Lyra, and I beg in time your mind heals and the wounds seep memories of me - your Ser Kaelo." He vowed all the while his voice sounded like it was on the verge of breaking. He raised his head and looked Lyra in the eyes, while his own welled with tears.

"I'm sorry..." he gasped and fell forward, opening his arms for an embrace. Lyra, cautious as ever, flinched backward at the sudden movement toward her, and wrapped her hand tight around Wolf.

No sooner than Kaelo had appeared, Chief had as well. He, sly and smart, appeared behind the man and growled softly. Kaelo turned his back and held his empty hands up in front of Chief to prove he was not armed - his only sword he had surrendered to Lyra, and was on the floor at her feet.

Lev, pacing himself, flapped and landed by Chief's side and warbled a tune that halted his companion's protective rumbling. Chief's ears pricked and he whimpered slightly in hesitation before timidly reaching his head forward sniffing the man's hand. He leaped back and landed on his haunches, cocking his head in confusion. He, like Lyra, wanted to trust him, yet couldn't.

Lyra's Soul, however, a precocious being, much like his girl was, reminisced on the memories and welcomed them into his life. He remembered those days at King's Landing when all he had wished for was a little peak of happiness for his girl amidst her personal dejection. And Kaelo was that happiness. _Maybe_ , he now thought to himself, Kaelo would help free her.

Kaelo turned around, grinned an effervescent grin at Lyra, before tilting his head back and laughing at the sun.

Lyra remembered this. In a fleeting moment, Lyra remembered Kaelo laughing at the sun like they were old friends sharing a joke. Then the darkness returned.

Kaelo stopped his laughter for a second before thanking Lyra for not stabbing him in the back while his back was turned. Lyra thought this was an odd thing to be gracious for, and maintained her fierce stare. She had not blinked. She had not taken her eyes off him.

Kaelo dropped to the floor, stretched his legs out and folded his arms behind his head. It looked like he was having the time of his life.

Lyra remembered this, too. She thought his Soul was childish. If he were an Outsider, he would be a Fennec, a small, childish fox. He was playful, vivacious and crafty. She remembered, but pushed it from her mind, still clutching Wolf.

Kaelo noticed the blade and his smile grew even wider, displaying every tooth and tonsil in his mouth. "Ah, Lassie", he chortled, "I remember Ser Lyra would always have Wolf on her."

Lyra looked at the man quizzically, and Kaelo pointed to his own blade laying at her feet.

 _Toothpick!_ Her mind screamed, in remembrance. She remembered the silly name that she admired.

 _Ser Kaelo and Toothpick, Ser Lyra and Wolf,_ her Conscience reminded her. The days she had spent dreaming. The days she had spent drawing the two knights fighting side by side. The days...all gone now, but engraved in her mind forever.

She was frozen. She wanted to say something, but all that came out was the stuttered phrase of "Vicious little monster".

"No, Lass." was all the man said at first, sadness returning to his voice and eyes. "All lies, my dear, lies fed to you by demons".

Lyra continued to stare. Memories of her torture stirring. Memories of the smells of food she longed for but couldn't reach. Memories of the axe handle beating her head. Memories of her screaming as her hair was pulled out of her scalp, or her body was burned by wax or iron.

The memories forced the darkness to grow darker. Each day, it seemed, they got worse.

Yet his smile flashed through her eyes like the sun broke through the gaps of clouds after a thunderstorm.

There was an odd light in the darkness Lyra had grown fond of in light's absence.

And that light was Ser Kaelo


	45. Unbroken

_Lev found the silence excruciating._

 _Where once Lyra's little voice would rattle in his mind, it was now empty, and he knew that his dear girl felt the same way._

 _The silence was excruciating for Kaelo, too. Even Lyra could tell._

 _There was an evident void in their conversations, and suddenly it all seemed so awkward where once there was no end to their ramblings. Kaelo stared at Lyra like he was bordering on an emotional breakdown, yet they were swelling simultaneously with love. How he could still love her was beyond Lyra; but it was captivating. It was building a trust within her she would soon learn it was safe to stand on._

 _It was time for Lev to rejoice; the long awaiting renewal of Lyra was building._

 _She was broken; yet now it was time for her to rebuild. Rebuild with fractions and lashings of who she once was, but with the combined strength of mind, the knowledge she had gained, and the darkness that had kept her alive. She would be unstoppable._

 _One day, the little Outsider would be great. Lev held onto that and told himself that in the unbearable, desperately dull, silences._

 _One day, she would be unbroken. For now, she was just getting started. Learning everything she would need to help her as she marched toward her destiny; a destiny that was naught but a story to the little girl, but something that would soon become reality._

 _Kaelo spent most days swinging his sword at invisible men, slaying them like Lyra used to do. He would practice balancing his sword on once hand, before tossing it and catching it in the other. He would spin and kick the air, and slice the blade through leaves. When his eye would catch Lyra's, he would break into the biggest grin and say sweetly, "I'm nowhere near as good as you, Ser Lyra."_

 _He extended his sword to Lyra, bowing his head respectfully, and said, "Dear Knight, might you show me the skill you possess."_

 _Lev looked over to Lyra, eager to see her perform. She remained still as a statue, her ice eyes not blinking and not breaking contact with the man. It was times like these Lev was desperate to reach Lyra, to crawl back into her mind and comfort her, to tell her it was alright to trust her._

 _Lev flew to a branch near to his girl and Kaelo, in full sight. Lyra's stern glare changed to panic, and her eyes darted between the owl and the man. Soon, her panic turned to tears of fear pricking her eyes. Hesitantly, Lyra pulled up the sleeve of her shirt. There on her bruised flesh, were the burned scars of the word the fat boy had carved - "OUTSIDER". It would never leave her. It was a sign to all; hate her, persecute her, kill her._

 _Kaelo did something remarkable though._

 _He smiled and knelt by Lyra's side, reaching his hand out and gently touched her flesh. At first Lyra flinched and cried out. The touch of other flesh on her was odd, and she never remembered it to be kind. Yet, now, Kaelo's warm hand soothed her._

 _"Lyra-", he began, looking at her lovingly._

 _"I. Don't. Care." he enunciated clearly._

 _Lyra let her sleeve fall down again, and her whole body drooped. Broken. She was so utterly broken._

 _"I don't know where you got the idea that you can't cry, that you can't do the hard yards without breaking, without crying, without falling. If you fall, fall with abandon."_

 _Kaelo stood up and picked up to sticks on the ground, sticks that looked like makeshift swords. He held one in his right hand, offering the other to Lyra with your left._

 _Lyra hesitated silently, then she took a reluctant step forward and took the stick from Kaelo's hand._

 _"You fall. You cry. You get over it. You get stronger", Kaelo said, and lodged an attack at the girl. And she, to Lev's delight, swung back._

 _Lyra was not healed. Lyra was nowhere near mended. She was still broken, still traumatized and helpless. Yet, she now had a teacher other than the wild. Ser Kaelo and Ser Lyra._

" _It is not how you fall, my girl, it is how you rise",_ _Lev spoke to Lyra's closed mind._

 _And, in the briefest of moments, a moment that truly fleeting but worth it nonetheless, Lyra looked at Lev and nodded._

 _She had heard him. She was opening her mind._

 _It was time to rebuild._


	46. Becoming a Warrior

The Stormlands

Through the day they trained endlessly, and through the night they did the same. Lyra once knew only to run without ceasing, yet now she and Ser Kaelo refused to cease training.

Sometimes Lyra would fall backward by Kaelo's strong blow, and she would burn her hands on the coals of the fire, and Kaelo would not cease his blows on her. She would whimper and raise her hand to forfeit, but Kaelo never paid attention.

He was teaching her a resilience she never had before. Real courage, Lyra had learned, was knowing you were damned before beginning, but beginning anyway. Whether it would end the way she had hoped, she was unsure, but she would fight while she could.

On fallen logs, Kaelo would instruct Lyra to stand on one leg to work on her balance. He would hit the log nearby and scold her if she flinched. If Lyra turned her back on him in battle, he would relentlessly hit her over the shoulders and reprimand her, saying, "You _never_ turn your back on your enemy!"

She was not a warrior, but she was learning. She was learning how to think like one, learning that perhaps a strong, wise mind was a better weapon than a sword. The strategy of the battle was more important than the battle itself.

When they weren't training, which was a rarity, Lyra would find solace in an activity that was new entirely. Smooth and round stones were collected, and upon the faces of each, she began etching her lullaby.

Eddard. Catelyn. Robb. Jon. Sansa. Arya. Bran. Rickon.

Her father, the strongest man she had ever known, was the first to be carved, and Jon, her best friend, was second. The rest of the family followed, and with longing tears pattering on the letters as she carved them, she felt a little bit of Lyra breaking through the cracks. Her heart was cold and dark, each beat seemed cynical and morbid - yet, the shattered remains of it ached. The ache of a little girl. And at her core, that was who she was. Who she remained. When the training ceased, when the Monster succumbed in eating her alive for the day, she was just a little girl who missed her family.

In the weeks since Kaelo arrived, Eddard, Jon, Catelyn and Robb were the first names she had carved. Each night, she would place her family around her in a circle, a protective circle of love. And tenderly, on the face of each of them, she would kiss them, and her mind would scream the love her outward words simply could not form.

She dreamed of them. She dreamed of Winterfell. She dreamed of the happy endings that had once seemed to be promised in her innocent mind.

Lyra never forgot them. Not even her former being.

She remembered Robb's stern face, his seriousness, but she remembered how protective he was of her. When Lyra was three, Robb had drawn his sword and yelled at Lyra's mirror when the monster scared her. Of course Robb had thought it was all fake, but the intent was kind.

She remembered her sisters. Sansa was tall with hair like fire, she loved lemon cakes and happy endings. Happy endings; it sniggered in her mind. Happy endings were merely fables. Happy endings have smiles, and friends and mercy.

Smiles and friends and mercy were non-existent to Lyra. But smiles were once abundant. When Arya would play Knights with her, when Bran taught her how to climb a tree, when her mother kissed all around her face before kissing her nose, when Rickon teased her about being short and her Father would put her on his shoulders so she was much taller. When Jon Snow smiled at her, and taught her to be a Knight. To stand up tall, to be strong, and brave.

Lyra was alive. Somewhere.

Perhaps deep down.

But Lyra never died. Nor did her family.

In her heart they would live forever.


	47. The Most Powerful Weapon

The Stormlands

She constantly felt she was dancing with Death. The moves were actions she was unaware of, and though she tried to learn, she stumbled hard.

She was fighting a battle no one knew anything about, and that, perhaps, made her stronger than anyone. She could break. She could fall to her knees and yield. She could accept defeat and beckon Death so that they could dance together forever. Yet, she never did. She was far stronger than she gave herself credit.

No words other than "there is no such thing as mercy" and "vicious little monster" never left her lips, yet they were getting close. She tried hard to say the names of her Direwolf, her Soul or her family, yet they never made it.

"What do you think is the most powerful weapon in a battle?" Kaelo posed to her one day during their training. Lyra was developing speed with her stick, but she still found herself hit frequently, fresh welts and wounds appearing each new day.

Lyra, still silent, nodded toward Wolf.

"Wrong" Kaelo replied quickly, offering a quick whip to the shin, causing her to wince, "try again".

Next she nodded toward Toothpick, Kaelo's own long sword.

"Wrong", Kaelo snapped, and Lyra felt the stick crack again her arm this time. She steadied her own stick, playing the part of a sword, in her own hand and tried to swing it at Kaelo. He was too fast, and yet again, she was hit. He was too good, and she was far too slow. She was knocked to the ground, and with a painful gasp she threw her hands in the air and surrendered.

Another strike hit her.

"Have you got the answer yet, Ser?" Kaelo asked Lyra's swollen body.

It hurt. She felt so pathetic. She felt she simply could not improve. Once again, she surrendered. This time she made it more obvious - she pulled a piece of loose white cloth from her stolen shirt and held it in the air. She knew nothing of armies surrendering in battle, except that a white flag was the symbol.

Her arm was hit was Kaelo, and she dropped the flag.

The man didn't say anything, instead his eyes bore into Lyra's and she knew he was asking her to still answer.

She could not surrender. She was weak, and that was all she wanted to do, but she couldn't. Once more, she felt torn.

In her lost state, the stick hit her again, and she sunk even further to the ground. Her eyes lifted to meet Kaelo's - they were still somehow full of love and kindness, but there was desperation in his furrowed brow to get her to answer, to get her to understand.

"Get up", Kaelo said softly.

Ever so slowly, Lyra began to move her sprawled little body on the ground. She reached her arm for the white flag, but she was whipped again before it could be grasped in her scarred hand.

"Get up", Kaelo said again, enunciating his words clearer and with a hint of anger in his tone.

The pain wasn't excruciating - she had experienced much worse - but it was hard to rise when she knew she would fall immediately after. She felt tears dribble down her cheeks, and she lay bruised and bloodied on the ground, raising the white flag of surrender as if she was going to be beaten down again.

"I'll ask the question again: If a blade isn't the strongest weapon in a battle, what is?"

Lyra didn't respond, she just sat there, defeated, staring expressionlessly at the ground.

Kaelo sighed in frustration, and tapped Lyra gently on the head with the stick.

"I don't want you to think _real_ strength and courage is a man with a sword in his hand. Real courage is when you know there is no chance of succeeding, but you begin anyway. The key is to endure the pain, accept it is temporary, and fight the fight no matter how bloody unfair it is. The key is to persevere."

When Lyra looked up at the man, he squatted by her side and smiled softly at his little friend, dabbing her bloodied lip with his sleeve.

"So-", he sighed, "What is the most powerful weapon in a battle?"

Lyra slowly moved her hand and tapped on her head. Kaelo grinned effervescently and squeezed Lyra into a tight hug to his chest, causing her to flinch at the touch.

"Yes, my dear Knight", he said in relief, "Your brain, your mind...your Soul".

With that, Kaelo picked up his stick and rose to his feet, while saying, "I was giving you a hint all along... _Get up_. When you are knocked down, _get up_. When there is no hope, _get up_. When you are too weak to bloody well stand, at least try and _get up_."

Lyra heaved herself off the ground, and no sooner had she stood on her own two feet, she found herself on the ground again. She looked up at Kaelo, stick in his hand, and his words rung in her mind - GET UP.

She struggled against the want to retreat and hide, it hurt desperately, and she knew she would fallagain.

Still, she got up.

She found herself on the ground again, and she picked herself up again, wiping the blood off her lip. Time and time again, she found herself on the ground, nonstop would she look at the pitiful white flag and she fought every fibre of her being not to go over and pick it up in surrender.

She could not surrender. All she could do was get up.

 _Get up, get up, get up_

It echoed in her mind. Get up.

Lyra looked over her shoulder. Lev.

She wasn't talking to herself. Lev was talking to her.

 _Get up!,_ Lev cried to her, _Get up and fight!_

Kaelo loomed over her, weapon in hand. She gathered her feeble little body and with one strong surge of energy she heaved herself to her feet, her own weapon in her hand this time.

She would be knocked down again. She would be defeated, undoubtedly. But that did not matter. She was utilizing the most powerful tools in battle. Her brain, her mind, her Soul.

She got up.


	48. Self-Destruction

The Stormlands

"You have been raised by wolves, my dear knight", Kaelo was speaking at a whisper, "you have learned what many have not. You have learned the loneliness of a wolf, but the stealth of it, too."

The young Outsider was perched upon two slippery, algae-covered rocks. She jumped between the two with a sprightly step, maintaining her balance and keeping a keen eye on her prey - a clueless fish, swimming innocently in the stagnant water below. She was silent as Chief demonstrated many times on his hunts. She stalked her prey with the stillness of a wolf, but kept the watchful eye of an owl.

On occasion, her eye would catch the Monster's as it appeared in the reflection of the clear water. Its dead eyes would glare at Lyra, and reach its ghastly hand toward her. The girl would jump back, gasping in fright, losing her nimble-footed ways forthwith, causing her to plummet into the water and make a lasting ripple. The Monster would vanish, but out of the corner of her eye, she would see the dead. There was once a time, she recalled, she felt an odd companionship with them.

During the lonely days of her childhood, whether she'd be home in Winterfell or locked away in King's Landing, she would look at her surroundings before her and feel the loneliness of her life - but, the dead that lived in her peripheral vision would offer her an odd comfort. They never spoke, but if they could, Lyra, in her childhood innocence, would imagine them telling her that she was not alone.

Now, she wasn't so sure. She'd embraced the darkness willingly in nothing but a bid to survive, yet now she was so confused and torn. She had embraced the darkness unaware that in doing so she was introducing a Monster to her mind, and the damage it was doing - or _could_ do - was debilitating.

How was she to explain such a feeling; she simply could not. Words were inadequate, and such feelings were overbearing to a girl so young. Lyra basked in her silence still, and though her mind screamed, her mouth could not form such words. It was as if she were laying down on a bed of serrated knives, each slicing through her flesh and ripping her insides to shreds. On either side of her, a different army fought a war; a harsh match of tug-of-war. Her Soul held one arm, the Monster held the other, and she could feel the agonizing pressure of feeling herself be ripped to shreds one bone, one muscle, one tendon at a time.

And she could do nothing to stop it. She had no words to speak, she had no trust to turn to Ser Kaelo by her side and allow herself to be protected. She had courage to rise, as the man had taught her, however, she didn't have the courage to trust again. Even she was an enemy to herself, a stranger to her own being.

So, she hunted.

The wolf within her howled at the moon - and it was only as she stared into the Monster's eyes, that she realised the moon within her, the moon that caused the little wolf to howl each night, was her Soul. And that, Lyra determined, was why she preferred the moon over the sun. She longed for the moon, much like a wolf, as she yearned for her Soul, like an Outsider.

In one quick movement, and a failed swish of its tail, the fish became aware of its predator and tried to flee, but the little wolf was too quick. Lyra lunged forward, makeshift spear in hand, and pierced the fish through its gills. It bled and struggled and suffered, until Lyra gave it a safe passage out of its misery. After all, death was the only mercy.

The prey was about the size of her arm, a considerable catch compared to the lean fish she had only been known to catch in the past. It was heavy and Lyra had to use all of her strength to heave its bleeding body out of the water.

Gently, Lyra tried to say a little prayer to the animal she had killed. She was praying to no one, but she had come to respect each creature, each tree and each sprout of algae as if they were each individuals worthy or respect.

 _"Forgive me!"_ her Conscience cried in all the softness and sweetness little Lyra Stark, trapped deep within her, an innocent victim of her own destruction, could muster.

Outwardly, no emotion flowed on the girls face. She reached through the blood and guts, endured through the dreadful smell, and proceeded to saw off the animals head with not a word, not a blink, not a flinch.

Kaelo stared at her like she had fallen from the sky. This girl was so strange to him, so odd, yet interesting like a closed book he just had to read. Kaelo watched as Lyra sawed of the head of the fish, threw it in the air, and allowed Lev, a magnificent white owl, to swoop down and seize his prey. Next, Lyra removed the scaled tail of the fish and flung it into Chief's snapping jaw. He swallowed it whole and opened his mouth, eagerly awaiting more.

Lyra cut the remaining body in half. She flung one half to Kaelo, who, in his fixed curiosity in this strange girl, failed to catch the fish and instead felt it slap him hard in the face. Red appeared from the hard, scaled slap, but he didn't care. Instead he chuckled to himself and his eyes sparkled in admiration at Lyra.

"Thank you, Ser!" he said with glee, before sinking his teeth into its flesh.

While Kaelo ate, Lyra stared at him in her own curiosity. She knew he had once meant a lot to her, but the happiness had been pushed so far back in her mind, she knew it would take a quest to retrieve it.

Happiness.

Lyra had all but forgotten what happiness was; she could not recall what it meant to be happy, but she vaguely remembered the feeling. Warm. Warm like the summers sun settling on her head. Warm like her father's smile shining down on her. Warm like her mother's kisses, or Bran's sweetness, or Rickon's playful antiques or Robb's protectiveness. Warm like Jon giving her a piggyback ride through the halls of Winterfell.

 _Happiness was warmth,_ she thought, waiting and wishing for an echo from Lev, but there was nothing. She curled up in a ball and ignored the coldness; the bitterness and bite of the wind, mimicking the cruelty of the world. Warmth had retreated the moment she had felt the warmth of her father's blood, and her world continued to grow colder and darker every day Ser Deacon's axe handle would smack down hard on her innocent little frame.

She uncoiled herself, and like a snake, she slithered to bathe in the sun. She was hidden in a forest so dense the sunlight would barely break through the heads of the trees, but when it did it offered the odd ray of light; a ray of warmth. In the sun, she remembered more of the feeling she'd lost.

Her world had grown colder when she moved to King's Landing, she recalled. Yet, there was one ray of light that kept it fun, and that ray was a man who thought himself a knight, and she too.

 _Kaelo_. The man of such a name offered warmth, she remembered. She would grin when she would see him, and he would cackle at the sky like it was telling him a joke. She would sword fight with him, dream of him, long for him, and ache for him like she did her own family.

Realisation suddenly hit her, and she felt like something small came alive within her once again. Like little, sweet Lyra, scared, trapped and alone in the chasm of her emptiness and brutality, found a gap in the rubble and reached her hand through.

She looked over and saw the man's face. His eyes were sad, looking at the girl like it broke his heart. And it was then that she realised the truth: it did.

She was so broken, so detached, so cold and merciless, but alive in the man's memories of the warmer days they'd shared together. There, basking in the sunlight, she allowed a small crack to open in her mind. She remembered Toothpick, Ser Kaelo and Ser Lyra fighting side by side on an imaginary battle field. More than that, she not only remembered - she remembered fondly.

The man, as if he knew what she was thinking smiled gently at her. _Warmth_.

He moved onto his knees, and extended his hand, slowly, toward Lyra. Then he spoke, "You are Lyra Stark".

The name rattled around in her head, a ghost of a person long gone. Perhaps they were once, but they were now no more. Yet, it kept coming back to her- _Lyra Stark. Lyra Stark. Lyra Stark._

The name only rang one bell in her mind, and for that she spat, "Vicious little monster!"

Kaelo shook his head sadly, and the girl spat again, "Monster!"

"No, you are Lyra. You are my Little Knight."

"Monster", she said softly, like a gentle breeze.

Kaelo sighed and reached for the smooth rocks on the ground. Everyday, in ritualized actions, Lyra would spread out the stones with the names of her family and encircle them around her. Each name was tenderly and meticulously carved with much love, but intense sorrow. Sometimes, Lyra would move the family out of the circle and into other positions. Eddard and Catelyn would stand together, while Robb, Jon, Bran, Rickon, Sansa and Arya would be separate.

"Where are you?" Kaelo asked, and when Lyra didn't respond, he continued, "You have a rock for everyone in your immediate family, yet you don't have one for you?"

Lyra's silence was still deafening, and Kaelo was beginning to get restless. He reached forward toward Jon, and before he could pick up the rock, Lyra smacked his hand away, snarled like a wolf and gathered up her family like a she-wolf, protecting her cubs.

They were more than stones, Kaelo realised, they were all she had left of her family. And, in an odd way, all she had left of herself; her old self.

Voices swam to her head. They started out faint, but grew louder. Lyra scratched at her ears to stop the noise, but ceased her clawing when she noticed Kaelo drawing Toothpick and standing guard. Chief had his hackles standing up and was growling, and Lev had taken off to scope from the sky.

The voices were not in her head. The voices were real, and they were coming.

Warmth retreated, and the coldness of her world returned. Fear, hatred, rage, and emptiness returned.

She braced herself and readied for more destruction.

But then, just as she was ready to throw her sword and plunge into a deeper darkness and state of loss, the strangest of sights blundered onto the path.


	49. Finding Her Soul

Alongside Roseroad, Near to Highgarden

First there was a boar.

It was large and angry, and as it rampaged through the wilderness, Lyra could hear it huff and puff. It was slippery with sweat and glistened with blood. After a stagger, stumble and painful grunt, the beast accepted defeat and crashed to the ground, dead.

Then, there was a girl.

Wild like Lyra, though not as tormented. She was long-faced, buck-toothed and of fiery spirit. No words were needed, no greeting to be exchanged, for the young Outsider could read the girl like a book she'd find in a library. Lyra was a girl of few words, but she could, most times, pick people to pieces and capture their souls in seconds. A gift sometimes, a curse others.

The girl pulled the arrow out of her catch and placed one muddy shoe triumphantly on the boar. Then, with a wicked smile and unrestrained snort, the girl pointed at the beast and announced, "Dinner!" Her smile was awkward and strange, but her spirit oozed confidence.

The silence from Lyra and her companions sliced the air, leaving the girl to look awkwardly at her boots. Just as Kaelo lowered his sword and Chief ceased his growling, a second voice travelled through the trees. Their swords were, once more, on guard and awaiting permission to attack.

An older man staggered up to the girl, eyed off the beast and the girl, before shrugging and saying "You've caught bigger" in a harsh accent Lyra recognized from the North. He was aged with hair like smoke and skin as dry as parchment. At his feeble age, he stooped like a wilting flower, but his eyes, though milky and slightly blood-flecked were gentle.

The man became suddenly aware of his audience, and turned to face the odd crowd staring at them, growing red and seemingly shy. He bowed at them and gasped out an apology for his intrusion.

Lyra could only focus on the girl, and try and analyse her Soul, her spirit, her worth, by just a look. The girl's eyes bore into Lyra's; her left eye serious, relentless and hideously stubborn, while her right eye was lazy and hung at the bottom of her lid, which made the young woman look perpetually distracted.

When spoken what her name was, she spoke in a harsh Northern accent, and spat her words out like they were venom on her lips- "Trynn" was her name, a name which Lyra had never known anyone to have, but Maester Leland once knew a man, who aged to bear a daughter with such a name. All seemed irrelevant now; the things that were once important were now so irrelevant, but a memory nonetheless, so Lyra held them dear to her.

The older, doe-eyed man beside her smiled gently with all the warmth he could muster for a face so haggard, before saying ever so softly, "And I, my fine travellers, am Arkadah, Trynn's grandfather."

Kaelo put his sword away, mumbling, "You don't carry a weapon?"

"I don't need a weapon", he began, "I was born one". He looked over to Lyra like he knew all her secrets and smiled gently. With a side glance to the boar, he said, "Please, I implore you, join us for dinner. This boar will not eat itself, and we have more than enough."

Kaelo grinned and rubbed his tummy in acceptance. Lyra stared between the grey-haired man and fiery haired young woman unsure what to think.

The man's eyes were gentle but expressive, and should one stare at them long enough Lyra thought she saw someone dancing in them. She looked discretely over to her hiding Soul, and Lev, to Lyra's confusion, gently bowed and nodded toward them. Her Soul trusted them, but Lyra did not.

She didn't want to go. She wanted to stay hidden in the forest forever with just Chief, Lev and Kaelo. She had a hard time trusting herself; she deemed it impossible to trust others. The man stooped down toward Lyra and stared deep into her eyes, before saying to himself sadly, "Such sad, dead eyes for one so young."

Kaelo put his hand on Lyra's shoulder, causing her to flinch and grip the hilt of Wolf. At her sudden flinch, Arkadah and Trynn looked at her sadly.

"This young lass has seen the horrors of the world, dined with the doers of the worst deeds known in all of Westeros. Forgive us-forgive her-please", Kaelo warned.

Just as Lyra was about to turn and run from the stooped man, she noticed something eye catching around his neck; a necklace made from ivory in the shape of a tear drop. Etched onto the material was the carving of a deer

This was the necklace, the proud-though-hated symbol, of the Outsiders. The older man, Lyra gathered, was an Outsider. While she was tempted to reach to her neck and pull out her own Outsider symbol - an owl - Lyra felt she must keep that knowledge hidden for now.

She could not trust anyone.

Yet, there was something truly compelling about meeting another Outsider. One that wasn't chained, or burned, or brainwashed - or on their way to the chopping block. An Outsider, like her, that was in hiding, like her.

Whatever the feeling Lyra felt was, it was pleasant. Like in this torn apart, mixed-up, cruel, tormenting world, she felt like she belonged.

She reached deep inside her and tried so desperately to remember what trust was like. She considered they were not going to kill her, or poison her, or beat her. She considered the man's Helai symbol of a deer- Compassion and sensitivity. Spiritually, Outsider's with a deer Helai were well-attuned. Maester Leland's mother's Helai was a deer.

Slowly, reluctantly, and like the whole of her being was screaming "No!", Lyra nodded her head, and began following the man and young girl, her hand still on Wolf. The company walked in single file through the forest, each man for himself as they tread carefully, ensuring they didn't trip on any roots.

Lyra walked behind Trynn, whose wildness saw no limits, and seeped into her appearance.

There was a fire in this girl's soul, and, almost like it was billowing within to such an extent it trickled gently into the world outside. Such an escape, it seemed to Lyra, was through the girl's hair. Like her spirit, her hair, too, was fiery. Red like flames, but a darker auburn then she remembered of Sansa. Her hair was long, dark and thick, and raced down her back stopping midway to her hips. The top half of her hair was tied up, and she had dreadlocks coiled into a bun. Sticking out from the bun were two feather's, one was plain brown, while the other exhibited flashed of black and blue and looked to be from a grand bird.

They entered a clearing, and their destination became known. An odd rock formation tunnelled its way through stone walls that had moss covering them so thickly it looked like they were almost entirely made from the greenery, rather than stone. Carvings of all sorts of animals covered the wall, carved through the moss. As Lyra walked through the tunnel, the same word swam up to meet her adjusting eyes a multitude of times - "ZENNAH". On the walls of the tunnel, on a meticulously structured hut of bark and twigs woven together by vines, and carved into trees in the sunlight, the word "Zennah" was always visible. Lyra thought that this must be the man's Soul – Zennah must be the deer. The girl recalled being safe in Winterfell and feeling obliged to carve "Lev" into the walls of her chambers and roots of nearby trees.

Trynn heaved the boar off her shoulders and yelled out, "MA! We're home- with company!" After a crash and bang of stones and pans, the tiniest old lady hurled herself out of the hut, and grinned the biggest smile Lyra had ever seen, after Kaelo's of course. She had wrinkles thickly covering her face, and some teeth were missing, but her smile was still grand. She scuttled over to the little Outsider and wrapped her shawl around her shoulders, "My dear child, you must be cold".

Trynn interrupted the silence Lyra offered by speaking the truth, "She doesn't speak, that one" gesturing to the filthy little girl. The fiery, older girl snorted before averting her gaze and beginning to help Arkadah carve the boar.

The little old lady didn't skip a beat to smile tenderly at Lyra and say, "No worries there, lass, so many people, you will find, speak when they really needn't say anything".

Before Lyra had time to react, the lady gazed deeply into her eyes and reached out her liver-spot covered hand and held Lyra's gloved hand - but Lyra didn't flinch, she remained concentrated on the tenderness of the woman. Wistfully, she said, "Such a serious face", then she squeezed Lyra's hand and ran her hand over her back comfortingly, "Such sad eyes...oh my sweet, tormented child. There is a battle deep within your mind, I can tell."

Lyra lowered her eyes and breathed out, no longer fearful of her surroundings. This woman was good. Good people still existed - she had to relearn this. The hard part wasn't learning to trust again, it seemed, it was learning to differentiate between who to trust and who to be weary of. Such things she would learn in time.

"You are human. And to be human means to be broken. And that, sweet one, is a special kind of beauty." The sweet woman slipped her hand out of Lyra's and smiled feebly. She was so aged, a simple smile seemed to tire her out endlessly, but she mustered the strength anyway.

And just as the nameless old lady was too far away for her feeble little voice to reach, she turned to face Lyra to offer one final smile and comment to cement the foundation of trust.

"You don't think I know, Trynn knows, Arkadah knows, how special your Soul is?"

Then she nodded behind Lyra, and when the Outsider turned to see, she was surprised to find Lev staring back. Lyra turned to face the woman again, but she was shuffling away.

"Your Soul is with you. The wings of your Soul are always there to lift you, to guide you!" the lady called out from a distance.

Lyra turned to face Lev, and in her mind, called him in a thousand silent ways.

 _Are you with me?_ , Lyra cried to her Soul.

 _"Always"_ , her Soul cried back, " _I would give you my wings if I could, my dear Lyra, for you are more precious than gold_."

Lyra felt tears well up into her eye, and her lip began to quiver. Timidly she reached her hand forward and extended it until it touched Lev's soft white feathers. In a gentle flap of his wings, Lev sailed into her embrace.

 _I'm sorry!_ Lyra sobbed in her mind. She sobbed into his feathers, into her Soul.

 _"There is nothing to forgive, brave one."_


	50. The Mask

Alongside Roseroad, Near to Highgarden

Something stood sentinel within Lyra, it growled at her Soul and forbade every joy.

The Monster.

Oh, how it ripped her apart and had caused such dreadful destruction. Lyra realised, the importance of inner-strength. The newfound logic held great value: when caged with monsters, it is important not to become a monster.

It was the mask she wore to escape King's Landing, the mask that allowed her to prosper. Where once it had only been the frightful figure in the mirror, it now resided inside her.

It was the mask, she was beginning to realise, that was crippling her the most.

The mask of the boy.

She had told herself that she was a little wolf, that she was a Stark, but the memory of the boy lived on. She was covered in blood and mud, and wore his clothes, albeit ripped to shreds. She had wanted Lyra to come back, she had wanted the Monster to leave, but it was only now that she realised what she really wanted was not at all what she needed. The old little Lyra Stark was the only good thing in the young Outsider, but the Monster was the only reason she had escaped and thrived.

It was when Lyra began to shed the mask of the boy she had murdered that light began to shine through the cracks, and the seed of possibility grew within her for all to see.

Almost as abruptly as it had begun, her silence concluded. Her Soul flew in one day, pried open the bars of the prison of her mind and perched himself in her mind with a proud sigh. The Monster was there, Lev could sense it, but so was he. Her Soul had returned to her, and nothing, Lev declared proudly, could ever remove him again.

When Lyra had first arrived at the home of Trynn, Arkadah and the little old lady, the moon had been in its first half, but now it was in its last. Time had past, and, thankfully, the little Outsider had only grown closer to her Soul, and had opened her mind more.

She learned that the Monster did not escape when she opened her mind, but nor did he stir, and, for that, she started to consider the possibility he wasn't actually there. Perhaps this was Ser Deacon's victory over her; he had planted a vicious monster in her mind, a monster that made her weep in the darkness of her own mind in fright, a monster that made her tremble in her shadow and refuse to look upon her reflection.

Arkadah had noticed her bloodied clothes, and, following a previous incident of Lyra stabbing her reflection, Kaelo had mentioned the Monster in the mirror. The ageing man approached her one day, a bundle of cloth and linen in his hands, and said, "These are for you. The _You_ you need to become."

They were clothes typical of a boy- a simple shirt that tucked into dark brown pants, knee length boots and fabric vest- but feminized with an old torn dress that came to her knees, ripped open up the front, that she wore as a vest over her outfit.

She did not look like a boy.

She did not look like a girl.

She just looked like Lyra.

The little girl who used to sprint around Winterfell with her tattered clothes, the little girl who didn't want to be a girl, but didn't want to be a boy either.

It was perfect.

Lyra felt more freedom in this outfit alone then she felt when she was fleeing King's Landing. She had, at long last, taken off the mask.

"I've seen an owl", Arkadah sighed, "And that owl, my dear, is your destiny."

Lyra looked at him, and puzzled herself over him - who was he, and how was he to know about her? He clapped his hands together and over trotted the deer she had seen on his Outsider necklace.

"This is Zennah", the man smiled, stroking the deer on her silky head, "My sweet, sweet Soul". His Soul looked over at the girl, cocked her head slightly before doing the oddest, most unexpected thing - it bowed its head to her in respect.

Lyra stared in silence at the deer for a while, before the man interrupted, "You may have a Monster living inside you, but you also have a Soul, and that will become a destiny far greater than you can imagine". The man, stood beside the deer that was still bowed, bent his knee - an act of respect, but one Lyra had been raised to show to her superiors. How odd, this man was now imparting such an act on a girl as plain and simple as Lyra.

 _You bow to no one special. I am just me. A plain, simple, battered, bruised Outsider_ , Lyra wanted to say, but it only echoed in her mind.

Lev, who was out of sight, echoed back, " _And that is what makes you so special_ "

"It is time for you to shed the mask. You need to start to prepare for your road of enlightenment that will lead to your destiny."

Lyra nodded in agreement.

She was plain Lyra. She was simple Lyra. She was battered, bruised, brainwashed and completely utterly broken Lyra.

But, through it all, she would become something else. She would build from nothing and learn that there is beauty in brokenness.

She was broken, but she would be brilliant.


	51. Unconquerable

Alongside Roseroad, Near to Highgarden

Her Soul, at last, was unconquerable.

They had been through the fiery pits of hell, they had been beaten, ravished, left for dead, and attempted to be separated- yet, like a phoenix, they had risen from the ashes of their suffering. They had flown the cage like birds, and sailed, together, in the wind, bursting forth and offering light and hope in their wake.

Unconquerable.

At last, after spending so long being broken apart, she felt she was ready to rebuild. She would never rebuild to what she was before - what was the point? If a building cannot withstand a storm, why rebuild it to its former state, only to face ruin once more?

She was to rebuild her fortress to be stronger, to withstand every storm her father and Maester Leland believed she could, she would have sharp jagged edges around the outside, spears poking up from the ground that shot to her turrets, and they would protect the inside. They would protect her innermost being. It would protect her Soul, her former Lyra locked safely inside, and her conscience.

And then, in the dungeons of her inner fortress, there would be the Monster. It scared Lyra and the girl kept it locked away, but she could use it against itself. Should enemy ride to her door, should she be beaten again, broken again, crippled again, only then would they know the wrath of the Monster.

The days had blended together with no tragedy befalling her, and she found companionship in Trynn, the awkward, buck-toothed, lazy-eyed red head, Arkadah, an Outsider like her, and his feeble but terribly sweet wife, whose name was no longer "little old lady", as it had been to Lyra for some weeks - it was Nella.

Arkadah spent some time teaching Lyra each day the lessons Leland never lived long enough to teach her. As the girl and her Soul were stronger now, due to the hardships they had endured, Lyra had the power and authority to tell Lev with her mind what to do.

And now, after five years of dreaming, she could do what she never thought she could.

She could order him to change species with her mind.

No longer did he change based on his personal, childish decisions, and no more did he flutter between species according to Lyra's emotions - he listened purely to his master.

 _Eagle!_ She would announce in her mind. She would think of an Eagle's power, their clarity, and their sheer brilliance. As an eagle, Lev would embrace the power of confidence needed in a battle, the clarity to navigate the world and balance its problems. He would take to the skies and twirl around and be, at last, free.

"Your chains are gone, my dear knight!" Ser Kaelo yelled in joy from afar. He practically pushed Nella over in his pride to hurry over to her.

"You did it!" Arkadah shrieked, "You changed your Soul at an age no one has done so before." Then he knelt by her side and Lyra noticed he had tears in his eyes. As soon as the tears pricked his eyes, he turned around and Trynn's face appeared, her smile vibrant, grinning at her.

The three chatted excitedly among each other, and Lev looked on proudly, giving his master a gentle nod.

" _My ahead, my sweet master, embrace this new you"_ he spoke wisely.

And like the hope of spring arriving after the cold, misery of a long winter, she shattered her silence with the only word that seemed appropriate. The name of her Soul: "LEV".

At the sound of his name, Lev unfolded his wings and took to the skies. He flipped and twirled and circled, and cried in glee.

"LEV!" Lyra screamed in excitement, a smile returning to her face. "LEV, MY SOUL!" she screamed. Her voice was raspy, the words odd to say, but they were good. The little girl leapt around the camp and followed her Soul as he swooped and rejoiced.

"Lev, Lev, Lev, Lev, Lev" She spoke at once. It felt so good, it felt like nothing she'd ever felt before.

After his dance, her Soul glided down to join the joviality of the humans, his master and Chief. He landed on her arm as an eagle, and beamed in pride at his master, but quicker than a blink, Lyra had ordered him to become something else.

His two strong wings turned into the legs of a white wolf, the clawed feet of his former eagle landing as the other feet of the symbol of house Stark. Her Soul was a wolf. The warrior and her shadow stood in triumph: they were strong enough to withstand the storm because they were the storm.

She was her father's little wolf.

She was Lyra Stark.

She was unconquerable.


	52. Wings of the Soul

Alongside Roseroad, Near to Highgarden

With mud, tar and pounded and pulverised charcoal, Lyra's masterpiece was nearly complete, and her rebuilt structure of who she was to become was standing strongly.

She dipped her hand in the black substance she was creating, and like her hand was a paintbrush and her face a canvas, she began to draw. She closed her eyes and coating her eyelids thickly, she coated up toward her forehead and the black covered to each of her ears. Down each of her cheeks, she drew jagged, feathery edges.

And then, when she was finished, she mustered up all the courage she could find and looked at herself in the reflection.

On her face, half now painted, were a pair of black wings.

Her eyes of ice pierced through the black that covered them thickly, and shot into the eyes of the beholder like a lance of ice. She was terrifying, but brilliant.

Lev, an owl, landed on her knee and gave her a look of approval.

"I am yours and you are mine", she spoke to him.

 _Always and forever, my sweet Lyra,_ Lev replied.

She stood tall and commanded the attention of the adults surrounding her, "I am an Outsider and I will not cower in the shadows."

The girl marched forward to a rock, and when standing upon it, succeeding in making herself appear taller, she shouted, "Man can think what they like, Man can hunt me, Man can shun me, and they can beat me to the ground, but I will never be ashamed of how I was born. I am, forever and always, one with my Soul!"

Then, when she knew all eyes were on her, she gestured to the painted black wings covering half her face.

"The Wings of my Soul will guide me toward the destiny prophecised. They are my personal symbolism of freedom - escaping from the cage of my Soul, but keeping the unity between my Soul and I strong."

Kaelo stomped forward, his face serious, but his eyes glistening with tears. He reached Lyra's side and dropped to his knee, Toothpick in hand. And there, with tears of pride running down his cheek, he pledged an oath of fealty. It was not the typical oath said by Liege Lords or knights, but then again, Lyra and Kaelo were not ordinary knights.

"Ser Lyra" he began, looking at his dear knight who stood so beautifully broken but brave in front of him, "When I look at you, I see all the ways this cruel world has tormented you, but I see all the ways your mind and Soul have endured. I know your world is in darkness, but, if you will allow me, I will light lanterns within your fragile body, so that you know that there is nothing but light when I see you."

The knight looked up and tears were flowing from his eyes, racing down his cheeks and soaking his beard. His eyes were ordinarily filled with kindness, and he always had an air of merriment about him, but now, as he surrendered himself to this little girl who deemed herself a nobody, his eyes were full of nothing but love.

"I will shield your back and keep your counsel, and give my life for yours, if need be", were the only words he attempted to keep similar to a typical oath.

Toothpick was extended horizontally in his hands, its shiny blade facing the sun, bouncing light off its face and shooting it into Lyra's eyes. Lyra thought of what to say, she thought of the typical response to one who was swearing an oath, but decided against it.

There were so many words Lyra wanted to speak to the man, so many she wanted to declare, but all of them escaped her. There were no words anymore. No words to describe the hell she'd been through, but the light of Chief, or Lev, and now Kaelo.

She had been dreaming of fighting side by side with Ser Kaelo since the day they met during an imaginary battle in King's Landing. That day had not escaped her, she remembered it fondly; she was slaying her imaginary foe, oblivious to the reality that one day it would not be in her mind. Kaelo had sauntered up to her, teasing her, but sweeping her off her feet with his smile.

She remembered, and the small remnants of a smile returned to her face.

"Ser Kaelo and Ser Lyra, I remember our duo so fondly", Lyra began with a suddenly soft voice.

Something caught in her throat and a liquid stung her eyes; it took Lyra a while to realise she were beginning to cry. With a raspy voice, trying to barricade her tears, she stuttered her way to an end of the pledge. "It would be an honour if we, at long last, fight side by side."

It wasn't much of a pledge, perhaps it wasn't even official; but it was perfect for them.

Kaelo had never stood with the great, but he had sat with the broken; that is what made him a great man. That, according to Lyra, is what made him the _greatest_ man _._

Words failed her, so she resorted to actions. The only action she remembered she and Kaelo had once shared. It was odd, the movement shocked her at first, but she embraced the peculiarity of it.

She stepped forward, and just as Kaelo looked straight into her beautiful ice eyes, she wrapped her arms so tightly around him and squeezed him into a hug.

It felt odd. It felt not like she remembered, but still she held him tight, and Kaelo held her back.

"Ser Kaelo" Lyra whispered, a stray tears escaping and charging down her dirt-covered cheek.

"Ser Lyra", Kaelo whispered back, retracting his head to plant a kiss on Lyra's forehead.

There, in each other's arms, they remained for the longest of times, until Lev's gentle coo broke through the silence.

The Wings of her Soul rested on her face, and the literal form of her Soul perched within her, so deep and secure.

She didn't want to be an emperor, nor did she want to be a ruler; she hated power, as she always had done. All she wanted was to be an Outsider.

There was little to her plan; all she knew was she wanted to get to the Land of Souls - the land of the Outsiders, the home of her kind.

She knew that when she departed the shore she was standing on, and reached the shore she longed for, she would not look back in fear or hesitation; she would smile and soak in all the goodness the new land offered. For then, at last, she would be home. She would be where she belonged.

One day, Lyra promised herself, the Wings of her Soul would lead her there.

 _One day._


	53. Her Nightmare Returns

Alongside Roseroad, Near to Highgarden

There was an old tower on the crest of the hill Lyra could see from her chambers in Winterfell.

Lyra often reminisced on this tower, and imagined herself, a knight, rescuing some distressed being from its highest point. Even in the darkness of King's Landing, the old tower remained in her mind - although, the meaning changed. No more was it a tower she would visit one day, for the tower, an old and crumbling ruin, now symbolized the desolate, shattered core of her mind. The tower became her.

It stood tall and beautiful, and in her innocence, Lyra imaged only purely the secrets it held. Now, Lyra realised, inside the tower was deep, dark and crumbling.

What was once was no more.

But, then again, it continued to shift and change. Much like her Soul returning, or the monster growling in her lowest depths, the tower, too, was capable of change.

It would rebuild as Ser Lyra trained with Ser Kaelo, and Trynn would join in with her spiked mace, her stubbornness refusing to spar with a sword.

It would rebuild as Nella, the white-haired, wrinkle covered lady, would prepare meals and mend clothes for Lyra, reminding her briefly of her own lost mother.

It would rebuild as Arkadah and Lyra bonded as Outsiders, feeling united in more ways than one, preparing in readiness for their departure from their hideaway near to Highgarden, and journey so far deep South into the Land of Always Winter, where they would meet the few remaining Outsiders inhabiting The Land of Souls.

The towers rebuilt, her Soul grew stronger, and while the monster continued to growl and threat, Lyra rose above it and learned to control it. What was once is no more, she continued to remind herself.

Ser Deacon had halted the joy in Lyra's life, and stripped her world of its colour. There, in the soul-destroying room she was imprisoned in, the vibrancy of her youth was shifted to a two-toned existence. She had escaped Ser Deacon physically, yet she would never escape him. As long as he was living, as long he was still eager to chase her, he held victory over her. Lyra often wondered if the cruel man would come back into her life.

One particular day, as departure to the Land of Souls was pending; she no longer needed to wonder. For, nothing that ever was would remain, and joviality was truly fleeting.

A man rode up to camp. Then another. Then another rode forth, until a group of fifteen stood in their hideaway, outnumbering Lyra's little band of companions.

And then, the leader of the group of colossal guards rode forth. The man parted the crowd of men in golden cloaks and heavy armour, and stood tall in front of them.

 _No...Not a man...a beast_.

His bald head shiny with sweat, his colossal body plated with the Gold armour she had fled upon her escape from King's Landing. He was larger than Lyra remembered, which was saying a lot as he was often compared to Lyra's tiny body, broken and crumpled on the floor. How could such a giant be any bigger, how could such a vile man even exist?

Through all of his changes, one thing remained the same in his appearance: His grin. Oh, how it still sent shivers down her spine, even after months void of his presence or nightly beatings. His teeth were like fangs, his tongue like a serpent, and if Lyra dared think about it, she could smell blood - old blood, new blood, _her_ blood.

The beast was Ser Deacon, and Lyra, once more, felt herself become the victim. She wanted to scream and cry and beg and plead. She wanted to slip from her body and become one with the Earth, a mere wisp of dust sweeping across the barren land. She had felt herself become _someone_ in the days past, but now she wanted to become _no one_.

'Kill me now, kill me quick!' she wanted to scream. Lev, having given up waiting for a command, shrunk to match Lyra's core...he shrunk to the smallest creature he could muster and hid himself behind the heel of Kaelo's boot. Down to the ground as a powerless insect he shrunk. He was cowardly and innocuous, but Lyra wished nothing more for her to be able to do the same. She wished to shrink and become an ant, then she could run away, back home, back to Winterfell.

Her Soul was petrified. Kaelo, mercifully understanding this of Lyra, grabbed her hand in one of his own, and drew Toothpick with the other. Chief came out growling from the shadows, like a ball of flame, and stood guard in front of his master, too.

Ser Deacon bared his fangs, and growled: "Vicious little monster". As an act of mercy, her body sent Lyra into a state of shock and panic. The memory stabbed her small body and pangs of every emotional ripped through her. Her lips quivered, her eyes pricked with salty tears, and her legs trembled until eventually they gave way from under her.

'Kill me now, kill me quick!' she thought to herself again.

"You thought you could escape me, Monster. You thought you could keep your Soul."

Arkadah stepped forward, mimicking Kaelo in shielding Lyra's crumpled form. "She is no longer yours to torment. The Outsider is stronger than you could ever know."

 _Strong_? That's a laugh, she was a trembling mess. Going forward, Ser Deacon found it to be quite the joke too. He snarled and grinned and some saliva dribbled down his chin in his gaiety.

"Strong?" the beast asked, cocking his head to emphasize his confusion of such a word, "Look at her. The King and his royal mother shall find this quite the comedy."

While Ser Deacon was bickering with Arkadah and Kaelo, Lyra came to her senses, and from there, she saw her opportunity. An Outsider always has a plan. And now she was to come up with one, quicker then she had in the past. She drew Wolf from her belt, and locked eye contact with Trynn, who picked up her mace slowly.

The plan? Attack.

It was not a matter of who attacks who, as conflict was inevitable. Lyra considered that Ser Deacon would not leave without killing her companions and seizing Lyra once more - she had to make the first move.

She remained in her crumpled heap, not to risk drawing attention to her plan. It had been a while since she had thrown a knife, but she remembered Jon's lesson from the days in Winterfell.

The first lesson: Speed - "your enemy will not stand there and wait as you aim your weapon", Jon had preached. It had made Lyra chuckle once, but no longer did it do so.

The second lesson: Don't flinch - "A knight needs to have courage and a knight needs to have a steady hand. You can not flinch".

 _'Courage, Lyra',_ she told herself, imaging it was Jon beside her telling her the lesson.

"Stand up. Stand tall. Stand proud" was the final lesson she recalled.

Jon had told her that, and Lyra, in her innocence, had always tried to show it. She would not let Jon down.

She stood up, despite the bewildered look of her enemy.

She stood tall, despite the overwhelming feeling of wanting to curl up and die quickly under Ser Deacon's heavy hand.

She stood proud...she was an Outsider, and she would _never_ be caged again.

She stood, breathed deeply, and then quickly threw the knife until it cracked into the skull of the man beside Ser Deacon.

Then all hell broke loose.


	54. Weaponless

Alongside Roseroad, Near to Highgarden

Just as everything was clicking into place, and the tower was building and lifting its destruction off Lyra's little body... everything started to crumble.

 **Again.**

Nella, oblivious to the commotion outside, hobbled out of her hut, humming merrily a tune to herself. She happened upon the beast of a man, and without so much as a pause, he had snatched the aging lady into his tight embrace. He held a sword to her neck, and chuckled when Arkadah and Trynn screamed for mercy.

Once more, Lyra knew more than she could possibly let on- there was no such thing as mercy. Lyra didn't believe in mercy, and she knew Ser Deacon didn't either. She knew this, and like she had walked this reality before, she braced herself for impact. She knew, Lev knew, Chief knew and deep down, Kaelo knew the outcome. Mercy was not an option.

A sword sliced through the air, and after a dreadful dance, the sweet old lady's body ceased its struggle, and her head, held high in the sky by her few white strands of hair, had been divorced from her body. The man held her head high in the air, in front of Trynn's horrified, shattered world and Arkadah's daze, and grinned. He shook the head, cackled, and flung it in the air allowing his other men to make a ball game out of it. His menacing grin reminded Lyra of Ser Deacon back at King's Landing, and it angered her to realise he was not the only of his cruel kind.

Trynn, in her own dreadful dance, wailed and howled and fell to the ground wishing, undoubtedly, to just die then and there. Lyra knew it. She had felt it too when her father had lost his own head. The excruciating pain ripping through her body like she were being gutted.

Arkadah emerged from his state quicker than Trynn, and yanked Toothpick off Kaelo, and began his charge toward the man. He screamed in rage and summoned his Soul to attack in the most brutal form possible. "Zennah!" he screamed to his Helai, "Zennah! Kill them all, make them suffer!" His face was wet with tears, and fire and fury flickered within his Soul. Zennah shot out from her hiding spot, a lion of a magnificent red, and ripped one of the men to shreds in one chomp of her mouth.

Lev looked to Lyra, and after a nod from his master, he too joined in the battle. "My Soul!" Lyra yelled at him, "There is no such thing as mercy!". And, with that, Lev mimicked Zennah, at Lyra's soulful command, and landed on the ground as a lion; snow white in colour, still with shining blue eyes. He roared in spine-chilling rage, and, in less than a blink, had pinned two men to the ground beneath his heavy paws. Chief, too, dashed from the hut and pounced from the shadows, wiping a man out who was ready to ambush Kaelo from behind.

The words echoed through their hideaway: "Monster!"

They knew now. There was no turning back. There was to be no happy ending, there was to be no leisurely trek to the Land of Souls as Lyra and Arkadah had envisioned. There was just this. Constant hate of their kind, constant evading, and constant belittling.

Lyra drew another knife and flung it at another man. It slotted into his neck, hit and artery, and he staggered forward spraying blood all over the ground. The man concluded his life with a gob of bloody spit, as he attempted to slur an obscenity to the girl. He died in a puddle of his own blood, and died with his emerald eyes staring up at the sky.

She ran to him, allowed her Conscience to scream "forgive me!" before prying the knife out of the man and lobbing it at another. This time it hit the man far from the target she had intended. He yelped and howled like a wounded dog, before turning and rumbling like thunder at Lyra.

Killing was never her first plan, but it certainly wasn't her last. The fact of the matter was, if she needed to kill anyone for her own safety, she did so quickly. The suffering was to be minimal. It was the one kindness she felt she could offer in this cruel world. After all, though she understood now the absence of mercy, she believed it still lingered in death. The only mercy was death. There was truth to it, and that truth was her philosophy. This missed shot was not what she had planned, it was a failure not of her skill, but of her belief.

It struck the man in the shoulder blade, where it had been projected to crack into his skull, or at least his neck. He pulled the knife out of his back, growled at it, before pitching it back at Lyra with appreciable brawn. Lyra threw herself to the dust and felt the knife whiz over her head. Before she had time to get to her feet, he was stampeding toward her. Lyra looked over for help, but Kaelo was furiously fighting a man with quick hands. For a moment Lyra forgot about her own dire situation, and worried about Kaelo - the man he was versing held two swords, one in each of his hands, and swung them each so quickly, the silver of the blade blended with the sky.

It was then Lyra snapped back to her own reality. The man, staggering slightly, but persevering with deep aggression and will to slaughter his little enemy, barrelled forward toward Lyra. She reached to her belt to draw a knife, but was met with nothing in her embrace. Her knife belt was empty, and she was weaponless.

Only one weapon remained, and she screamed to it desperately - "LEV!"

The man dashed closer and closer toward the girl, his face growing in more detail with each step he took. His brow was covered in sweat, his clothes damp with blood, mud and perspiration, and his fists were clenched so tightly around his massive sword his knuckles had faded to white. He screamed and continued his mad bolt, his feet so hard on the ground, Lyra felt its vibrations.

"Lev!" she screamed again, lost in her Souls absence. She snapped her head over her shoulder in search of her one final weapon, only to find Lev in the fight for his life. Lev was trying to peck at Ser Deacon's head, while the beast of a man chased Trynn around the clearing. She was petrified and red with her own blood and Nella's, but her will to live remained. She spun and tried to swing her mace and hit the man, but failed and fell to the ground. Lev swooped in to protect Trynn from the blow, but was hurled away by Ser Deacon's heavy hand. There, on the ground, Lev tried to rally himself and get over to Lyra, but was unable too.

 _Stay where you are, my sweet Soul, this battle is mine,_ Lyra spoke to him.

She considered Kaelo's lesson: Get up. She recalled reaching for the white flag of surrender but being hit each time she did and being urged to "get up!"

 _'Get up, Lyra!'_ she told herself, despite her fear, _'Do not give up'._

She had no weapons in a physical sense, and even her Soul was unable to fight. Yet, she urged herself to remain strong. She could crumple to her knees, she could yield and accept defeat. She could reach her hands out toward Death and proceed to dance with him until she took her last breath.

But she never could.

She had to get up. She had to utilize the weapon Kaelo was adamant was the strongest. "Yes, my dear knight", her friend had spoken that day as he squeezed her into a hug, "Your mind, you brain, your Soul".

"When you are knocked down, _get up_. When there is no hope, _get up_. When you are too weak to bloody well stand, at least try and _get up",_ Kaelo's voice continued to inspire her.

And she did just that; she got up. The man was so close to her Lyra could hear him growling, and his sweat flicked onto her with each step. The ground thundered, and her heart skipped several beats before resuming, albeit thumping away quickly in her little chest. No weapon. No Soul. All she could use was her brain.

The man heaved his sword in the air and swung it at her little body, but just before its blade sliced her body like meat in a cook's kitchen, she ducked out of the way. She ran straight under the blade and had picked a rock up from the ground before the man turned around. She launched herself onto him, and hit his head with the rock, her weapon. She was weak and the man was tough, it was like trying to break through steel with a feather, but she couldn't give up, she had to fight and persevere while she could.

She hit the man, ignored the blood, and growled as she hung off his shoulders. She tried to kick the sword out of his hand, but he got the upper hand and hit Lyra in the face with the hilt of his sword, sending her flying backward. She refused to be beaten, and almost as soon as she found herself on the ground, she was on her feet again, fighting like a true knight. She wiped the blood off her face and endured, accepting that the pain was only temporary.

She stood tall and readied herself for yet another attack, courage roaring inside her despite her chilling fear.

She was Ser Lyra, and a knight could not be afraid.


End file.
